


Big Bad World

by Giggles96



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Cute, Daddy Moriarty, Dark, Disturbing-ish, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, Moriarty's perspective, Some Humor, Strangely cute at times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 48,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giggles96/pseuds/Giggles96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was never Moriarty’s plan to aim an unforgiving gun at a dark-haired, sniffling toddler, who was once the tall, lean consulting detective only minutes prior, with a thoughtful finger idly massaging the trigger. De-aged Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Big Bad World

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 **Big** **Bad World**

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**A/N:** First of, let me just say, I have never written a Sherlock fic before and while I was inspired to write this because I caught the tail-end of an episode, it's been a few months since I've actually watched the series, so it may not be entirely accurate. I just…couldn't get this out of my head and I tend to just go along with whatever my muse is urging me to write. I sort of set this as some sort of challenge to myself, so it's probably not very good and I also kind of wrote it in a rush, but I hope you enjoy this (one-shot?) all the same.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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The second their eyes meet all he cares to see is fear.

Those tiny beads of sweat forming on their forehead, hugely dilated pupils, that delightful bobbing of their throat as they nervously swallow, the spasms of facial muscles as they try to appear impassive - a pitiful attempt at most - and the way their jaws clamp together… just seconds before the shiver-inducing thrill of a bloodcurdling scream.

But the best part? The part that _really_ gets his heart pumping…

That instant when their wild flailing turns to jerky movements and their eyes flatten with defeat as they recognise, without a doubt, that this is the end; When their screams taper off into gurgles as blood begins to surge upwards and outwards, trickles of intelligent red, and they gag and splutter while he watches.

Truly, there is nothing better than those final moments.

Predator and prey, the superior and the weak. Natural selection or detailed targeting?

' _See you later_ ,' he'll cry cheerfully, a last goodbye stolen from grieving families. But what does he care? These people were choking on borrowed breath anyway.

Delinquency is understandably tempting when you're safe in the knowledge that you won't face any repercussions - when you appreciate how _easy_ it is to get off scot-free - and for Moriarty, it's like an addiction. An art, even. Innovative and electrifying and prosperous, all but drowning in riches.

He can choose not to live a life of crime, sure - but the problem is, he _wants_ to. For Jim, it makes no difference who gets hurt in the process. As a matter of fact, the aftermath is generally more exhilarating than the wrongdoing or killing itself, although there is something remarkably tantalizing about holding the fate of someone's survival in your hands.

Moriarty ends lives for kicks whenever the notion strikes him, and he has no intentions of nipping this little habit in the bud any time soon.

Truth be told, the consulting criminal has killed a fair amount, too. More than any normal human being could possibly count, but then, he's not exactly normal, is he? He has a tally, he keeps score. No-one is exempt from his games. Rich or poor, alone or surrounded, happy or miserable, Moriarty will snatch them up and there will be revelry and laughter and _blood_ \- dripping from one city to another.

It's madness. It's daring. It never, ever lasts.

Certainly, at first, it is oh-so-new and exciting for someone who sometimes feels as if they've seen it all. Stimulus is very important, you know. And his schemes provide that, if nothing else. Presents some distractions until inevitably, he grows bored once again.

And make no mistake, it is only ever a matter of time before he grows bored once again.

Highs and lows, dipping between overindulgence, marvelling in the wonders of the world, and this intense hatred for virtually everything, lashing out if only to show he can.

All those years nurturing his ego, sauntering around in the most conceited and sardonic way imaginable.

Bankers, politicians, business men, even the most powerful world leaders - All playthings to which he is lethal.

Moriarty knows that no matter what he does, or how many a-holes he crosses, he can revel in the fact that essentially, he is untouchable.

Even when the great Sherlock Holmes began poking his nose into his business, Moriarty could only gasp in delight, grin wider than he ever remembered grinning before, and gladly rise to the challenge.

Finally, someone to match his vast intellect, someone who _understood_.

Harmless fun. Hide and seek.

An impish yell, _'Honey, I'm hooomme,'_ and aching, childish need.

He was simply bored; Sherlock knows the torture of boredom.

But this? This isn't what he wanted at all.

It was never Moriarty's plan to aim an unforgiving gun at a dark-haired, sniffling toddler, who was once the tall, lean consulting detective only minutes prior, - a plump, delectable little munchkin, really. Sweet enough to munch on - with a thoughtful finger idly massaging the trigger.

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It was unexpected. Entirely unexpected, which isn't very fair; Moriarty doesn't like surprises.

Oh, he loves _giving_ surprises, but it's no fun when you're on the receiving end.

He was in the middle of a meeting with some burly simpletons - purely business, he can assure - and discussing the shipping of a new, untested drug he'd acquired through some of his more… scientific connections. The whacky, extremist kind, mostly. Though that's never bothered him. Moriarty has been positively _dying_ to get his hands on their latest experiment.

Normally, he doesn't get so involved in such transactions, but the man felt this merited a more…personal touch. In other words, Jim was bored. He wasn't in the mood to hide behind smokescreens; he craved action and chaos, and he was looking forward to the opportunity to let off some steam and be a snarky son of a bitch.

It had been going _so well_ \- tediously well-executed, if he's sincere - when, all of a sudden, who should barge in but The Virgin and his earnest little sidekick. Apparently, they'd been tracking him ever since he'd left Naples two days ago.

How… wonderful. _Someone's_ clearly getting sloppy.

There was a struggle, of course, and a few, minor casualties. Dead bodies and gushing red. Nothing too out of the ordinary.

Then, the biggest one, Alaric, he thinks, got a hold of the his pet detective - was so deliciously rough. However, being the Neanderthal meathead that he is, Alaric wasted no time jamming a needle into Sherlock's thigh, whilst another crony tied his soldier friend down and ducktaped his mouth.

It was all very unfortunate.

Do-gooder that he is, Moriarty _did_ protest, but by then, it was too late.

The deed was done. And he stood back and stared as his only real rival began to shrink, feeling a cutting tightness around his chest as Moriarty realised with a start that he was all alone.

No more races to save innocents. No more games of cat and mouse.

Alone - one word he swore he would never, ever use. Certainly not aloud. Certainly never something he would confide in anyone else.

They were kindred spirits. They had _something_. Together. A connection. Bound by their unreachable intelligence.

But now the exceptional, mighty Sherlock has been reduced to a pathetic, drooling _idiot_ of puerility. And he wonders what's the point.

Hence, the gun. His steely resolve. And an admittedly trigger-happy finger.

Usually, when he's wound up, Moriarty gets vengeance or plays a naughty, little prank, which may involve a touch of collateral damage - but that's not really an option now.

The John one is thrashing violently in the corner against his restraints and while vaguely amusing at first, this partnered with his muffled bellows is turning out to be rather irritating, grating on his sensitive eardrums. So irritating, in fact, that it is distracting him from his murderous intent.

 _"SHUT UP!"_ he finally roars, swivelling around with enraged eyes. "Just SHUT _UP_. Can't you see I am trying to _think?_!"

With noisy, clipped exhales, John gazes back at him, stunned.

Falling back on his heels, Moriarty shoves a hand through his slicked back hair, straightens his cuffs and subtly readjusts his tie, before breathing a slightly shaky sigh and saying blithely, "Now was that so hard?"

He doesn't answer. Of course, he doesn't.

But it angers him all the same. Striding forward, he crouches down in front of the other man, leans in uncomfortably close to face, and lowers his voice to a measured, menacing whisper, "I said... was that so hard?"

Without warning, he viciously rips off the tape.

Stifling a moan, John glares up at him, but says with admirable neutrality, "Please just let him go. He's only a kid. Sherlock isn't a threat to you anymore."

A deep, hearty chuckle erupts from Jim's chest. "Is this an attempt to appeal to my humanity, John Watson?" he questions, and as light-hearted and playful as it sounds on the surface, there is an undercurrent to his tone that is dangerously brittle. Especially as he thrusts the butt of the gun into the hollow of the man's throat.

John swallows thickly.

"Because, I assure you," he grins, "You'll be bitterly disappointed. If you're looking for guy-who-gives-a-damn-of-the-year, I'm hardly the perfect candidate. " Amusement flickers in his eyes.

"Spare him," John pleads, voice cracking. "Please. Let us leave and you'll never have to hear from either of us ever again, I promise. I am begging you, Moriarty - please don't hurt him."

The consulting criminal smirks cruelly.

Tilting his head to the side, he furrows his brows and sourly ponders, "But what if I don't want there to be a Sherlock that's not _my_ Sherlock?"

John reels back in surprise, blurting, "What?"

Half-shrugging in an overly careless manner, he explains, "As you have so kindly pointed out, he's a child. A stupid, dependant child. He's of no use to me like this. And if I can't have him, well…" His voice takes on a colder note as his fixed stare hardens with a remorseless, almost voracious glint. "I think you get the picture."

"But he is still Sherlock," the other man argues desperately. "He's still as brilliant as he ever was. Nothing's changed!"

"Everything's changed," Moriarty snaps. Then he arranges a tight, little smile that's all barbed wire and pointed daggers. "So you see, I don't have a choice. I have to kill him."

At this point, he sounds almost apologetic, forehead crinkled in a way that is certainly not sincere, blinking guilelessly. "I apologise for whatever inconvenience or heartache this must cause you, Love Bug. But I simply cannot let him go."

And he isn't merely talking about literally setting him free.

"Please don't do this," John implores, giving his ropes another tug. "You don't have to do this." Risking a glance over at the miniature detective who is currently cramming a tiny, slobber-coated fist into his mouth and mindlessly chomping, he murmurs wistfully, "He won't let you do this."

"Oh, he won't _let_ me, will he? That's interesting. Interesting choice of words there. What devious plan is the extraordinary Mr. Holmes concocting now, pray tell? Is he going to… what?" Moriarty pauses with a malicious sneer, waggling his brows. "Cry? Tell on me?" His eyebrows jump in patronizing alarm. "Throw a spectacularly trying tantrum? Gah," he cries theatrically, recoiling, "I can already taste defeat!"

Scarcely restraining himself from rolling his eyes, - as he would under any other circumstances, - John sighs.

Straightening, Moriarty grins a mischievous yet brutal grin and scoffs, nothing short of mocking, "Don't be silly, Doctor. I never figured you for the wishful type."

"You need him," John counters, confident and defiant, "You need him to win. This…this, right now, it isn't winning. He's not an opponent like this; even in this form Sherlock is still the only person that you can ever hope to compete with on your level. Neither of you have proved who's got the upper-hand, neither of you have been outdone. And if you kill him, you will always feel incomplete, forever wondering if you ever had a chance to begin with."

Nostrils flaring, Moriarty bites, furious, "You," he rams the gun closer, "Need to remember whom you're speaking to. Unbalanced psychopath with a gun, remember?" he sings. "So I would be careful, if I were you." The consulting criminal makes a sharp slashing gesture across his throat, lip curling. "Else you're toast."

John sets his jaw. "It only bothers you because it's the truth."

Jim sits back, considering this as he rubs his chin with the butt of the gun, feeling the coolness press against his flesh, the weight of the weapon in his hands. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock. Wriggling bare toes and kicking out from a puddle of clothes. His lower lip is puckering in frustration while his watery eyes brim over, salty tears dripping down his face as he whimpers. And it hits him, suddenly. All at once.

He's bored. The child is... _bored._

Moriarty narrows his eyes, clucks his tongue, hums a pleasant tune. He pensively smacks his lips, cocks his head, thinks it through.

He will _not_ be alone.

He refused to be.

Suddenly throwing back his head, Moriarty groans loudly. "Ugh! Fine! Ruin all of my fun, why not? I don't even _care_ anymore!"

John blinks, incredulous and cautiously optimistic. "Wh-what?"

"Don't sweat it, Johnny-boy. You didn't seriously think I was going to murder an itty bitty _child_ , did you? I would _never_ allow harm to come to a child," he says, as if scandalised. "Not least a charming little genius one. Honestly. Just look at those big blue eyes, John. Aren't they adorable? He's sooooo adorable, I think I might even hurl. Don't you just want to pick him up and _squeeze_ him within an inch of his life, Dr. Watson?" Moriarty asks, rising to his feet. "So cuddly and cute and oh so _innocent_." He claps his hands together. "It's marvellous."

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, John coughs, "Uh, marvellous?"

"Oh, yes." He beams. "Very much so."

He steps towards the small bundle, gun clattering to the ground. Rosy cheeks and floppy, dark hair falling into large, inquisitive eyes.

"What-what are you doing?" the other man demands, panicked. "Stay away from him! Don't-don't you dare touch him!"

Ignoring him, Moriarty kneels down beside the little boy and trails his fingers lazily through the youngster's soft hair, lips twitching. Reaching for him under his armpits, he plucks him from the warm clothes pile and cradles the young child close (who is swathed in a large, crisp white shirt), pressing his forehead against the little one's and breathing in deeply. It is a heavy, musky scent, entwined with rust and damp. Across the boy's cheek there is a bright smear of blood, - a residue from the fight, he's certain, - which Moriarty gently rubs away with his thumb.

"Good boy," he smiles, tweaking the toddler's nose.

Almost instinctively, Sherlock gives a tearful, sleepy snuffle and burrows his head into the man's chest, nuzzling into the crook of his neck and tiredly pushing his thumb between his lips as Moriarty soothingly pats his back.

There is an infinitesimal twitch in his cold, dead heart that he quickly dismisses as indigestion.

"Don't worry, lil' guy," he murmurs lowly, bouncing him lightly. "Daddy's got you now. I won't let anything happen to you."

Meanwhile, John all but gapes in shock, managing to unintelligibly splutter, "You can't seriously-Moriarty, don't-" But all of his objections fall on deaf ears - white noise against his quiet moment of truth.

This child is forever his to mould and shape. No-one can take him away from him now. No-one. Not ever.

"You're mine now, Sherlock. All," Moriarty smirks, makes a gleeful popping sound, "Mine."

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_Thanks very much for reading. Please do let me know what you think._


	2. Better Man

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**Better Man**

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**A/N:** Okay, so here's another chapter of the story I told myself I didn't have the time to write. I may be finished with it; I may not, depending on how this is received. I hope this lives up to any expectations. Bear in mind, though, that this is _Moriarty's_ story, not Sherlock's, so it's probably going to be dark and disturbing in parts, because that's just the nature of the character.

**Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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He's a better man now, didn't you hear? That's what they all assume. Word got around that he had a kid and suddenly everyone was underestimating him.

What a bunch of twats. Gullible fools, the lot of them.

It's their own fault, really, if he retaliates to their ill-advised little power-plays with greater machinery and grander plots than they could ever aspire to contend with. He's the top dog, the brains they so desperately need behind the operation, and they'd do well not to forget it.

A clumsy game of trial and error, Moriarty is sitting crossed-legged on the floor building blocks with the Munchkin, - merely humouring the little boy. He's fed-up listening to his incessant blubbering and that's the honest-to-God extent of it - who stacks them as high as he possibly can and eagerly awaits the devastating ecstasy of his masterpiece toppling over.

It's not long before the sound of crashing ensues and Moriarty is stroking his fluffy hair and praising him in soft, baby-tones, secretly proud of his little pint-sized rascal, when he accepts an 'urgent' call, only to be blackmailed by another imprudent traitor with outdated information. The third this week. Not as cocky as the others, that's true, but just as annoying. More precious father and son bonding time interrupted by a thumping-on-his-chest, insolent buffoon.

His patience is understandably wearing thin.

"Listen to me, you little shit," Moriarty retorts after a shaky voice delivers his demands. This one is more like a sheep following the herd than his previous callers, but he's not the tending shepherd - he's the wolf they're trying to force into sheep's clothing, and Moriarty will sooner devour him than submit.

"You, kind sir, are nothing more than spineless scum," he croons, faint and chillingly impassive. "Remember that. Remember what I can do. You think you've seen the worst of me, Bobby-dear?" He gives a gentle chuckle, effortlessly belittling. "If you fuck this up, I swear to God, I will personally pry off your fingernails one by one and use them to gouge out your goddamn eyeballs - and that's just an amiable taster between friends." There's a dry gulp, a ragged exhale. Oh, how he loves a good spook. "Now does that sound _fair_ to you, honey, or are you still planning to back out of a more than charitable deal?"

_Ding, ding, ding._ Door number three, please.

It's not the cash prize, nothing life-changing, but at least he'll _have_ a life. There's no mystery. No mystery in death. Moriarty doesn't take kindly to threats; he makes good on his word.

They shouldn't expect anything less.

"Oh," the consulting criminal grins a shark-like grin, tone almost sultry. "And piece of advice, next time you wish to spout off threats you can't possibly follow through on, try to sound a little more menacing, will you, darling? It's no fun if the person seems like they're about to piss themselves. For a minute there, I didn't know whether you were threatening me or inviting me for tea. Though, do try to avoid any clichés - no maniacal laughter, please. We're not in a bloody cartoon." And with that, he rolls his eyes and hangs up.

By now, he hopes the meaning is clear: stay low, off his radar, and maybe, if you're extremely fortunate, Moriarty might spare your worthless ass.

If not, then the consulting criminal will be all-too happy to drill the message into anyone unwilling to conduct themselves appropriately. He's dependable like that.

Alas, it seems as if people have lost all sense of self-preservation and they've already proven to be so dense as to act without perspicacity, gunning for the key player because conjecture rather than testimony pronounces him vulnerable. They are undisciplined, governed by concentrated desire for power, and that will be their downfall.

They will try to bully him and they will not succeed.

Let us pray, then, instead, they are fast learners.

Glancing down at the wide-eyed child perched on his lap, Moriarty cuddles the warm body close

- _asackofbonesabloodbagadelicatenecktosnap_

_locatetheaccuratepressurepointsyouknowyoucan_ -

And murmurs against his temple, "I'm sorry you had to hear that, munchkin. Daddy was talking to a very bad man and he said some words which you must never, ever repeat to anyone, okay? He just lost his temper a little bit."

Sherlock hesitates, biting his lip, then nods slowly.

"Daddy, he mean to you?" he asks, ever the upright citizen wishing to rationalize his father's less than honourable deeds, curiosity saturating his childish voice as he fiddles nervously with his fingers and wrinkles a thoughtful brow.

Beginning to absentmindedly massage the youngster's scalp in a manner that could easily be constructed as comforting, the man deadpans, "He told me he hopes I step on Lego sometime in the foreseeable future. It wasn't very nice."

Sherlock's eyes pinch around the edges. "Did he reawy?" _Or is this just you hinting that I need to tidy up my room again?_ His non-verbal question is noticeable in the downward slight slanting of his chin, the disbelieving note to his tone, a whole octave higher, and the suspicious tightening around his mouth.

He knows him too well. It's exhausting.

Moriarty shrugs. "May as well have for all of the unimaginable terror it caused me."

Sherlock recognises the dull sarcasm for what it is - thinly veiled annoyance, liable to detonate with the lightest of contact and programmed to obliterate everything within a ten foot radius - and it never ceases to amaze Moriarty that he can be an average two-year old one minute and a miniature detective complete with a built-in lie-detector the next. It often leaves him enormously conflicted.

"Sad Daddy?" Sherlock tentatively reasons, turning and snuggling close, practically face-planting against the man's chest, who pats his back rhythmically. He mangles his Daddy's shirt with one hand while he waits for the answer.

As is customary, the man falls back on nonsensical babble. It is not a method of consoling himself, he is adamant, nor is it an issue. Moriarty simply likes it, nothing more, nothing less. It is what it is.

"Daddy's little munchkin," Moriarty melodiously coos, planting a kiss on the top of his head with a scarily fond smile hovering his lips. "You're so clever, aren't you? My special genius, isn't that right? Mycroft's such a silly billy, isn't he? Thinking he could ever take you away from me."

The old geezer had tried, gotten himself worked up in such a frenzy that he offered Moriarty (the alleged kidnapper in the equation; kidnappers always have a price) full immunity from his crimes should he come forward and a fairly hefty ransom he never petitioned for, which Moriarty had no misgivings about declining. To his knowledge, the elder Holmes is still trying and is unlikely to ever _stop_ trying, resorting to detailed threats and reckless promises and then, when all else fails, flustered pleas that only served to arouse a piece of his anatomy that certainly doesn't correlate with pity - but that just makes it all the more satisfying.

Sherlock is stolen goods, apparently, and he's the bandit who'd be a fool to return his loot.

It could have all been avoided, of course, had he simply shot Dr. Watson rather than set him free, but that would have been a grave error on his part, considering how much fun he's had messing with them ever since. Moriarty enjoys living life on the edge and he wanted to give the sidekick the false hope of finding his chum and himself the pleasure of soiling their strategies and poking holes in their ambition.

The professional criminal's chancing fate, he knows, and revenge is so much more rewarding than a fruitful rescue mission, (and is quite the motivator, on top of that) so he probably shouldn't single-handedly rile all of the British Government and Scotland Yard up, but he's a roguish, sassy bastard who doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut.

Plus… he would hate to have to give his son up.

There's a chance he may have gotten mildly attached.

The boy in his arms slides his thumb into his mouth and worms around to get comfortable, entirely at ease - he knows he's not in any danger. His clinginess glares at Moriarty almost accusingly.

Maybe he has gone soft; maybe he has bitten off more than he can chew.

Maybe he's a better man, even if he's nowhere near a good one.

_Does_ Moriarty care, though? That's the million dollar question. The trick question, with only one right answer.

It's not something that he lies awake at night pondering. He doesn't have dreams, he's only capable of nightmares - envious of the monsters that dwell in the dark and as equally disquieting as one. He's morally bankrupt, a despicable man. He exploits others' weaknesses and preys on their fears, voracious for entertainment.

He's the devil's reincarnation, robbing innocents of their souls without faltering, and never bothering to conceal the disdain which he wears like a polished crown for the nobodies that he cheats on a daily basis. Moriarty basically wrecks havoc on peoples' lives for a living and has no qualms about doing as such. Though, what's even sadder is how equally unconcerned he is about the future of his own.

He is callous, egocentric, utterly abhorrent - a fiendish villain to spark a cutesy fairytale. And everybody knows villains are undeserving of a scenic ride off into the sunset; they don't get tidy happily-ever-afters.

Are monsters sentiment beings? Does the devil need love to balance the hate? Is the villain more than a means to an end?

Moriarty doesn't toss and turn thinking about it.

All he knows is that later when he's scrolling through masses of emails on one phone while taking call after call on another subsequent to a big-bucks deal going south, knee-deep in damage control mode, and Sherlock gives a frustrated whine and reaches up on his tiptoes to grapple at his belt in a bid for his attention, Jim certainly feels a pang of something.

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There is something about other people touching his stuff that Moriarty could never stand.

He's in a conference room in Dubai seated at a long glass table, - one of his more professional settings in some time - and dressed in one of his finest suits, surrounded by other well-to-do specialists and a handful of lackeys (decorated muscle, really), having flown in that morning on his private jet at a moment's notice.

They're discussing how best to market the drug that Moriarty previously pitched to them, which is why no-one argues with the presence of his sweet Munchkin who he brought along because he didn't feel like being parted from him, and the possibility of overtly targeting a small number of politicians to ignite a greater public interest and raise the drug's profile. Hence, a greater profit.

As well as that, it's something juicy to divert the papers for a couple of weeks and keep some relentlessly nosy FBI agents and journalists off their scent, so that some other premeditated assassinations go down without a hitch. And if he delights in the creation of legendary scandals, then no harm done, right?

It's a risky endeavour that could easily backfire. In which case, Moriarty will wipe his hands clean off the whole thing - he already has several prospects lined up to take the fall if need be.

Sherlock is swiftly becoming bored in the enclosed space, dashing from one end of the room to the other and squishing his face against the expansive windows, fogging up the glass with puffs of breath quickened from overexertion and staring down over forty-eight floors, watching the commotion of dots on the streets.

He's been told off more than once, but the toddler is insatiable. It's rather cute.

In any case, it is only a matter of time before the tell-tale thump of the overexcited youngster tripping over his own feet. He pauses in shock for a second, then begins blinking rapidly, before the first sob tears from his throat, arms thrusting upwards for his Daddy instinctively.

Moriarty has a rule about settling him down, though. He always - and will always - wait a full five minutes. Even if Sherlock is yanking on his hand or screaming croaky, anguish-laden screams of Daddy, he will make him wait if only to demonstrate that he will not come running at his every beck and call, and undoubtedly not on an attention-seeking whim.

Confined to these unfamiliar surroundings, the only person he trusts having seemingly vanished into thin air, Sherlock is swamped by his feelings of hurt and anxiety. He kicks out his stout legs in aggravation and bawls, face crumpled in distress.

The other occupants of the conference room trade looks of discomfort, though none are so daring as to actually speak up against him.

After two solid minutes of howling, a business man develops a backbone, wincing as Sherlock prods his skinned, blood-strewn knees and flinches, and cautiously piping up in a thick, French accent, "Sir, shouldn't we, ah, do something…? He's bleeding." When he receives no reaction other than a nearly imperceptible straightening from Moriarty, he shifts to grasp the child on impulse, making the consulting criminal's features immediately harden. He's obviously got kid's of his own, that much is clear, but that doesn't mean that Moriarty will excuse him for his interference.

Before the French man can lay a single hand on his son, he declares, "Pick him up and I will tie a bow around your neck and string you up with your own intestines," with the deadliest of sinister tones, brown eyes undeniably cold - glittering with a stark, sealed promise.

The man freezes, then hastily retreats.

"Sorry, boys," he drawls completely devoid of regret. "Nobody moves a muscle, kapesh? Even should your ears start to bleed, you will stay right where you are and disregard his wounded squeals."

"But-"

"I mean it," he snarls. "No-one touches him but me." The hoarse cries grow louder. "Oh, did this little titbit fail to qualify for the rumour-mill? I'm a really lousy parent," he tells them, smirking at their identical pained expressions, "So sue me."

With each passing second, the air thickens with tension. It's pathetic - they're all crooks; they should be able to withstand the sight of a child's snotty tears. Bloody idiots.

Keeping an eye on his Rolex, Moriarty stands at the five-minute mark. When a hum of relieved exhales sound, he glowers, to which they quickly back-pedal and offer up weak, strained smiles.

Moriarty scoops the youngster up and bounces him gently to appease his cries, uttering indulgent words of reassurance, "Shh.. It's alright, it's alright. Daddy's here now," while his munchkin sniffles and hiccups, burrowing his wet face in his neck.

He's proving a point, forcing him to wait and reinforcing his position of authority. Moriarty's taking the upper-hand, he's being a dick for no reason.

He doesn't do it to make him need him more.

"Daddy," Sherlock burbles amongst other slurred rambling, clutching tightly at his expensive tie and shaking his head distraughtly. "No go, Daddy."

Moriarty kisses his charming, little button-nose and allows his lips to curve liberally.

Bingo.

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_Thank-you for reading._

_Please let me know what you think; I really appreciate any feedback._


	3. Holding Back The Fire

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**Holding Back The Fire**

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**A/N:** I should really be studying for my mock-exams right now rather than writing this, or at least updating my other stories, but I have so many ideas knocking around in my head that I just had to get this out there. I hope you enjoy.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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Besides that first day, there have been many instances when Moriarty has fantasized about terminating his new life with the Munchkin - AKA terminating the life _of_ his Munchkin. By and large, in the most violent style conceivable.

'Cause, hey, he never claimed to be merciful. If he were going to do it, he'd make damn sure that it wasn't a spilt-second decision, that their final moments together were a long way from tedious. It would be only fitting.

The first time Moriarty considers bashing the kid's head in and stuffing the carcass under the bed, it is thanks to the gusting _oof_ as he is awakened by the air getting knocked out of him, kneecaps pressing down on his stomach, grabby hands clutching and tugging on his tee accompanied by impatient wriggling and light bouncing.

His first instinct is to tackle, to claw, _to kill_. But then it registers.

A babyish voice. His baby, to be precise. Annoying him. "Daddy, wake up! Wake up! It _Sunday_."

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday… he chants to himself - what's that thing about Sunday?

Throwing an arm over his eyes and wishing he could simply roll over and go back to sleep but knowing that that is never going to happen, Moriarty stifles a groan and instead mumbles, "It's a bit early for you to be up, don't you think, Munchkin?"

"Nuh-uh!" Cue frantic shaking of the head. "It bight, Daddy!"

"Hm, fool-proof reasoning, I'll bet," he smirks despite himself, even as he cracks open a lid and distinguishes the sunlight poking through the curtains unsolicited. But Christ, it's early.

"Go _park_ , Daddy!" Sherlock reminds him, clamouring up higher on his chest and beginning to squash together the man's cheeks. Between this and the way he occasionally sticks a finger up his nostril curiously while he's sleeping or prods Moriarty's windpipe out of boredom, it's a wonder he hasn't accidentally - or bloody hell, purposely - killed the little bugger yet.

He _had_ promised to take him to the park, though. He's been exceedingly in demand the past two weeks, holed up in one of his lavish condos in London, and Sherlock's been getting rather angsty. The toddler has been exasperatingly cranky, refusing to do as instructed and treating himself to tantrum after tantrum, wherein Moriarty would lock him in his nursery until he shut the fuck up, _(shutupshutupshutupshutup)_ although this often left the Munchkin pasted onto the consulting criminal afterwards.

He's lost count of how many video conferences he's had to conduct with the toddler napping on his lap, drool dribbling down his chin and onto Moriarty's cufflinks as he petted his dark hair like some exaggerated caricature of an unhinged baddie with a lazy cat to boot. It was dimly distracting. Especially in regards to the sleepy snuffles and muddled, drowsy Daddy's, which he had to pacify with gentle joggling of his knees.

Luckily, none of this was captured within the frame of the web-cam. Mustn't misguide the peasants, give the impression that he partakes in feelings. Or Jesus, that he's remotely sentimental. Getting fucking soppy or something. That wouldn't help his street-cred.

Then one day he stumbled upon the little boy seated amongst stuffed animals with toilet paper for bandages wrapped around their limbs and an array of plastic, green soldiers, clinking two revolvers together and his heart dropped to his shoes.

"No, naughty Munchkin," he'd scolded, furious, snatching the guns out of his grubby hands. His breaths were fast, deep. "Where on earth did you find these? These are Daddy's toys; not yours, understand? If I ever see you with these ever again, you won't be able to sit for weeks-" _Because you'll be dead. You'll be dead. Don't you get it? These could kill you. You'd. Be. Dead._ "-Do I make myself clear?"

"Bored, Daddy," he whispered, lip wobbling. "Like you."

Moriarty scrubbed his forehead, a tremor in his hands as he scrutinized his son - not for injuries, never for injuries.

Still…There was the glint in Sherlock's eyes that promised the eminent destruction of everything that came into his possession if Moriarty failed to entertain - like he knew _exactly_ what he was doing. It was foreboding... And with lightening speed, the man took inventory of every tenuously breakable thing within the mini-devil's reach and grasped with total certainty that turning his back on the Spawn for even an instant would guarantee their painful demise.

It occurred to him that maybe he ought to let the child release some pent-up energy in a safe environment, away from the many weapons he has stored around his home, where he'd _thought_ they'd be secure (he'd even hired some experts to child-proof his various residences. Now, he realized that that didn't have any bearing whatsoever on whether or not the buildings were _Sherlock_ -proof. They were evidently two separate matters entirely).

The Munchkin could also perhaps benefit from the fresh air. His skin seemed far too pale.

Energized himself at the prospect, Moriarty'd proposed, "Would you like a chance to be _ordinary_ , Sherlock?" Ordinary father and son day out, playing catch and feeding the duckies. Hilarious.

The cheek of it.

"Odi'nay?" He stared blankly.

"Ordinary," Moriarty corrected automatically, fingers steepled meditatively under his chin. "Yeah, let's be ordinary," he proclaims. "It's so _ob_ vious - hidden in plain sight. What a lark." The consulting criminal then hoisted the boy up and with one of his tiny hands clasped in his much larger one, began gaily dancing, spinning around and laughing, sporadically tossing the youngster up into the air and catching him, lavishing him with brief, affectionate kisses.

Oh, they'd go to the park. They'd gamble with his parental custody. He won't hide, he's no coward. He will not be silenced.

He could feel the adrenaline, the rush, the blood pumping in his veins.

He could do it.

All of a sudden, the silvery music was brought to a standstill and he deposited the Munchkin on the floor as abruptly as he'd man-handled him.

His smile slipped. "Tut, tut, Mycroft," Moriarty stated, unexpectedly livid. "Trying to pinch my son. Tut tut."

Sherlock just threw him a look to let him know in no uncertain terms that he was insane (touché, little one. Touché). His dubious expression coupled with budding, shameless arrogance (a mere seedling planted in the seemingly perfect conditions, so easy to stamp out should he so desire), and blunt absence of respect gave Moriarty pause - disgruntled or overjoyed by the similar mannerisms? He couldn't be sure.

But the youngster perked up a bit once he revealed what being 'Ordinary' entailed. He'd forgotten for a moment that Sherlock wouldn't remember their past conversations, wouldn't remember his contempt for ordina-

A light tapping on his nose snaps him back to the present.

Moriarty jerks.

"'Kay, Daddy?" Sherlock asks worriedly, breath hot on his face, brows knitted. He finds he doesn't want to gut him anymore.

"I'm fine, Munchkin, it's okay," he assures, caressing the kid's cheek with one thumb. "Daddy was just thinking."

Sherlock falls back, immediately comforted. Thinking, yes - that he could relate to.

"Alright, well, let's go get you changed, then we'll grab breakfast and head out, okay? How's that sound?"

With a petulant huff, the child pouts and protests, "No wet, Daddy!"

"Yeah, and my guns shoot rainbows," he mutters, eying the nappy sagging slightly at the toddler's waist. "Now put that face away. Daddy hasn't had his morning coffee yet," he sing-songs, "And he's grumpy enough to spank you if you don't behave."

"No wan spank, Daddy!"

"No-one ever _wants_ spanke- Well..."

Seeing Sherlock's little frown deepen, Moriarty rolls his eyes and smiles, ruffling his hair, before taking hold of the youngster under the armpits and lifting him up as he untangles himself from his sheets and stands. "Okay, cheeky, you win. No spankings. But you do need to be changed; there's no getting around it."

Grabbing a nappy from the small stack in the bathroom under the sink, Moriarty lies the toddler down on the changing mat and removes the previous one, giving him a stern look as he begins to unhappily squirm. Sherlock's always been resistant to these changes. It's not really a surprise, given how independent he yearns to be (despite how infantile he is. Absurd) and how little independence he actually receives. Next year when he's three Moriarty will potty-train him, but for now, this is their routine.

He wipes him clean with ease and after a sprinkling of fresh baby powder that makes him choke a little, tapes on a thick new nappy. Patting his padded bottom almost unthinkingly, he then raises his Munchkin up into a comforting hold, who pops his thumb into his mouth and drapes over his shoulder, gripping the back of the man's mussed, bed hair and kneading reflexively.

He would never admit it, of course, but Moriarty does enjoy these moments. At least, he thinks he does.

He likes the smell of his son's soft skin, the warmth of their closeness, the way Sherlock snuggles into him.

He knows that he trusts him, relies on him, learns from him. Loves him and only him.

It makes Moriarty swallow slightly.

His Munchkin. His Sherlock.

His everything.

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While at the park with Sherlock he finds the urge to strangle to him has once again returned.

As per instructions, the youngster hangs on Moriarty's hand, jumping over puddles (And failing. Every. Singe. Time. There's always a little splash-back) and swinging their arms between them, babbling about everything and anything, mouth going a hundred miles a minute, tripping over itself.

It's giving Jim a headache.

Sherlock yammers on about photo-synthesis and pigeons and honey bee's mortality and

_Didyouknowdidyouknowdidyouknowdidyouknow_

And local immigrating patterns and earthworms and minerals in rocks and the likelihood of ever getting attacked by one breed of dog versus another, because you just _know,_ how could you not _know_ -look at those teeth, Daddy-

"That's enough," he finally barks, jaw clamped forcefully. He yanks on his hand and pulls him up short.

Sherlock flinches.

"I get it. The park is very interesting. You've been cooped up inside for too long, everything's new and shiny. I _get it."_ He sounds animalistic, inhuman. A hiss, scarcely a voice.

Then, as he watches on, tears begin to well up in his Munchkin's eyes, incisive blue glistening dolefully. Bright with betrayal. And Moriarty sags, gut clenched with an emotion he can't quite pinpoint. Not remorse - he's not capable of remorse. But something. Something he'd very much like to go away.

Plunging a hand into his hair and tugging, he takes a great, calming breath and says evenly, "I'm sorry, Munchkin. Daddy's cranky; he just snapped. You know, I love listening to you ramble."

"S'okay," Sherlock sniffs, kicking a pebble. "Me okay."

Moriarty loosens his grip on the small hand and frowns as Sherlock slides free, massaging and rolling his left shoulder. He thinks he sees pain flit across his features before he buries it. He wonders how hard he pulled.

"How about we go get some ice-cream?" he suggests, forcing a sugary smile. _Just take my hand, Sherlock. Please. Take my hand and we'll be alright. I'm sorry. I won't hurt you again._ Maybe his thoughts are conveyed in his eyes, maybe his tone is tinged with regret, maybe the boy believes that it's only natural, expected, but Sherlock accepts his outstretched hand.

The toddler still remains icy towards him for a further hour, refusing to stand too close, shoulders hunched defensively. His breaths are as shallow as Moriarty's smiles.

But eventually when Moriarty encourages him to climb this wooden structure that looks remarkably like a pirate ship, Sherlock begins giggling and play-fighting, pretend sword swooping and jabbing dangerously. He scampers around, dark head bobbing excitedly as he flees for his life, and then begs Moriarty to join in, who does so somewhat reluctantly. This soon gives way to a tiring game of chase, the man pursuing the toddler, who shrieks gleefully.

He snags the back of the kid's shirt and drags him backwards, before mercilessly tickling his writhing torso, matching grins on their faces the entire time. Playful squeals and choked pleas - it's so alarmingly harmless. When Sherlock's skin becomes a little too pink, he stops and rights his rumpled clothes, announcing that it's time to try something else.

By the time the little boy dives down the slide and Jim holds out his arms to catch him, it seems all is forgiven, if not forgotten.

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He didn't get caught that day. Or another.

If he's frank, Moriarty is sort of disappointed in Mycroft's surveillance; never once did their outings feel oppressive. But he knows when not to push his luck and flies into New York the following Tuesday, worn out from juggling all of his responsibilities as a criminal master-mind and a single father.

It's tougher than one might think, but he can handle it.

He has bad days, though. And as everybody knows, when he's bad, he's very bad. There is no in-between.

Sometimes he pictures blood pooling from underneath Sherlock's lolling head, a bullet lodged deep into his developing skull, brains leaking knowledge. He imagines slicing the delicate tissue of his throat, envisions ripping open his stomach-

_'Daddy, daddy! Stop! Top it!' he shrieks, kicking his chunky legs, 'No more. No more!'_

_'Why?' he grins, leers, 'I thought you loved it when I blow raspberries?'_

_Another breathy gust on his cute little bellybutton and breathless, gurgling laughter. Harmless, harmless fun_

\- and fishing out the insides, gory, crimson entrails. He visualizes himself in a million different scenarios torturing and slaughtering and having fun. He wets his lips in anticipation; he is famished. He could chop off those chubby little pinkie's of his, those wriggly little toes -

_this little piggy went to the market_

_this little piggy stayed home_

_this little piggy had roast beef_

_This little piggy had none_

_And this little piggy cried wee, wee, wee all the way home!_

-And it would be so natural for him to smile as he's doing so, harmless, harmless fun. He doesn't want to; he wants to so, so very much - it's maddening. Once he selects a target… Well, that's it. They're a goner. And he selected Sherlock so very long ago…

But that was the Sherlock Holmes of before. _This_ Sherlock, on the other hand, is his son in everything but blood.

He matters to him.

Moriarty is suddenly struck by an image, suddenly sickened by the idea of weighing up the pros and cons, as he recalls the engrossed, exhilaration of his Munchkin's features when Moriarty gifted him with all of the tools necessary for his first experiment - a junior science kit. Blah - and how he'd then launched himself at the man's legs, hugging fiercely. He'd bent down to Sherlock's eye-level and cast keen eyes over his youthful glee, soaking up the soft eagerness and filing the expression away forever. And when Jim gave the tiny body a squeeze, it wasn't death, it wasn't asphyxiation, it wasn't _You're a dead man now, Sherlock._

It was a cuddle.

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_Thanks for reading. Please review._


	4. Childish Love

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**Childish Love**

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**A/N:** So this is a story which I could wrap up very shortly, _or_ I could continue, if you guys want to throw me some prompts. If you've got an idea you'd like to see, then by all means, lay it on me, and I'll see what I can do.

**Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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Curls of dark hair tickle his skin as he pats and rubs his son's lower back, who has sprawled quite comfortably over his chest and bumped his head securely under Moriarty's chin, crowding his personal space with casual disregard for his shrivelled ability to breathe - boundaries between father and son just don't exist any more, if they ever did.

A small hand tiredly fondles his shirt, while the other suspends from his mouth, thumb bobbing and generating a never-ending stream of gummy drool.

The irony is not lost on him.

"H-had b-bad dweam, Daddy," Sherlock had stammered as Moriarty blinked blearily at the blurry figure standing at the foot of his bed, fidgeting on the spot and twisting the hem of his Mike the Knight pyjamas between his fingers anxiously. Tears dripped from his lashes and his chin box quivered as he struggled to stay strong for his Daddy like a big boy.

And he, playing his role to a tee, had picked him up and sympathetically soothed, "Aww, c'mere, sweetheart. Shh. It's okay. I've got you. Daddy'll keep you safe," before cradling the little boy close, gazing down at the arched, shivering form with a forceful glimmer of protectiveness which should have made him worried, but instead, felt strangely natural.

"Nothing's going to hurt you, baby," he'd swore, but that wasn't quite true.

Lately, he's heard whispers. There's been talk, - just talk, maybe, he's not sure, and he's not willing to take the risk - of a possible bounty being placed on his Sherlock, dead or alive - that's how these things usually work, isn't it? Some unhappy customers have been calling for his head on a stick for weeks now and it wouldn't exactly come as a shock to learn that the outmoded angry mob have decided to target his son instead. It gives the rumours an ounce of credibility, unfortunately, and he's updated their security measures, all precautions have been taken, no expense has been spared, and yet…

Bull's-eyes and all that. You never know what's enough until it _isn't_.

Moriarty sighs.

At the movement, his Munchkin stirs, batting clumsily at his late-night stubble and snuffling, before going limp once more as he softly shushes him. Moriarty stretches the youngster's fuzzy, baby blue blankie over the little boy's shoulders to ensure he's warm and cosy and without thinking, grazes his lips over the toddler's crown.

Knowing how difficult it is for his Munchkin to sleep without one, he'd bought several identical blankets in case of emergency. He has one stored in his room for moments such as these, another stashed away in the go-bag he keeps on hand with a horde of other kiddie essentials for travelling, and the rest, Moriarty has stacked in cupboards all around his various homes.

Let no-one ever accuse him of not being thorough.

Had he ever had reason to give it any consideration, in the past Moriarty would have scoffed at the idea of becoming so _boringly_ domesticated. How dull. How ordinary. How _weak_.

It would have disgusted him.

Yet, now…now he enjoys his mornings off when he can cut the crust off his son's toast and nurse his coffee as the over-stimulated child dances around his feet and almost chokes trying to wolf down his food as quickly as possible. He'll tug on his pants and moan at Moriarty to hurry up, rolling his eyes and tsking as the consulting criminal moves at a snail's pace on purpose. Then he'll sprint off ahead of him when he finally - _finally,_ Sherlock has been known to grumble - finishes his breakfast and sets down his I-pad.

Sherlock is always so eager and so _proud_ to parade his latest project for his Daddy (the most recent being The Magic Ketchup Experiment, if you're interested. It was a disaster), and never disappoints in his joy at having him around for that infinitesimal hour or so extra.

Moriarty has taken to ruffling his hair and verbally applauding his achievements - not because he cherishes his Munchkin's pleased beam, or cares that Sherlock values his opinion, or because is glowing with pride himself. No, he merely wishes to foster his confidence so that when the fall comes, - and it _will come,_ believe him - he will fall that much farther.

Least that's what he tells himself.

The man has grown to love the evenings when he settles down in front of the telly with Sherlock snuggled up beside him, bouncing in his lap and chatting his ear off. There's work to do, always more work to do, but when he walks in and a gasp, or a squeal, or long-winded chants of _'Daddydaddydaddydaddy,'_ pierce the air and he braces himself as a tiny body launches itself at him - all bets are off.

Moriarty welcomes the boy's wet kisses and toothless smiles and sticky handprints smudged all over his impeccable suit. He doesn't know how, but it's moments like those that makes him realise: fatherhood _suits_ him. It's moments like those that make him realise he adores the affection.

Jim rubs his cheek against the youngster's head and smirks.

Yes, he is grateful in life for the simple things.

Moriarty even has a new appreciation for nightmares. Because at night, in the dark when every fear is heightened, nightmares are one of the few things that can still make his little boy cry.

And when his little boy cries, there's only ever one person Sherlock will ever seek out to comfort him, just as there's only ever one person that Moriarty will ever comfort whenever he seeks it.

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After weeks of ignoring the cheesy, picture books Moriarty purchased on a whim and throwing a strop if the task was ever suggested during a trying period where he won't stop complaining about the boredom, one day out of the blue Sherlock decides to try 'colouring.'

He flips the pages to cheery outline of a pirate walking the plank (because _of course_ it would be pirate-themed) and selects three chunky crayons, yellow, green and blue, before beginning.

For some reason, this amuses Moriarty greatly.

Maybe it is because he seemed so adverse to the idea for so long, maybe because he looks so darn _cute_ tapping the stump of the crayon to his chin like that, but it gives the man an absurd amount of pleasure to see his Munchkin indulge in the childish task.

While he works, Sherlock gulps down a grapefruit juice box and munches on some triangular sandwiches, with Moriarty interrupting only once to scrub his hands and face with a cloth. It takes a solid hour before the boy pronounces the picture finished, topping the drawing off with a simple _Love you, Daddy_ scrawled in the far right corner, letters shaky and differing in size, his eyes squinting as he concentrates extra hard.

Over his shoulder, his father presses his lips together to bury a smile. And if Moriarty's heart just so happens to melt on sight, it's not as if he would ever experience any desire to admit it.

Then, for some bizarre reason, Sherlock suddenly decides that Moriarty should colour, too.

"Will you, Daddy?" he begs, blue eyes ample and obnoxious. " _Peas_ will you hewp me?"

"No, Sherlock. I told you. I'm busy-"

His eyes widen impossibly further. " _Peas_." The toddler gazes up at him beseechingly, jiggling the corner of his Dad's shirt, which he clutches with one fisted hand.

Moriarty's smile, he will deny to his very last breath, is not the least bit pathetic and dopey. "Alright. Fine. Gawd. Just quit making goo-goo eyes at me, will you, love? There's only so much a man can take. I'll join you - knock myself out. Why not?"

Accustomed to his father's odd quirks, Sherlock simply shrugs off his comments, takes his hand and drags him over to table. He climbs up onto the chair and shoves the colouring book towards him, opening at a fresh page and thrusting a red pencil into the man's hand.

Moriarty whistles. "Well, look at you. Aren't you feeling all bold and fiesty today, Munchkin."

Nevertheless, he begins filling in the blank space of a cheeky parrot, glancing over at Sherlock occasionally to see that he is hard at work, too. It's nice.

They settle into a funny little pattern. Thursday soon becomes known as 'Colouring Day.'

And damn if it isn't one of the best parts of his week.

Following the success of that surpassingly pleasant Arts and Crafts session, on one Saturday morning in a hopeful bid to make a dent in his sizable workload, Moriarty opts to try something new.

It's a hit or miss idea, but one which could really pay off if it is indeed successful.

He mixes together plain flour and salt, then boils hot water and adds in both vegetable oil and blue food colouring, before combining the wet and dry ingredients and slowly stirring. Once thoroughly blended, he allows this to cool, then kneads the sticky clump, sprinkling an extra dash of flour, so that by the end, he is left with his own, homemade play-dough.

Then all he has to do is gather some blunt utensils, cups and bowls, step back and let the intriguing new substance work its magic.

Well… for all of five minutes.

At first, Sherlock excitedly pushes and prods the squishy slab, rolling it out with his chubby fingers and flattening it with his palms. But that loses its appeal pretty quickly, and Sherlock is forced to stretch his imagination, gradually becoming more and more inventive.

Before long, the youngster calls, "Look! Look, Daddy! Made a moat to pwotect the castle!"

"Very good, Munchkin. I see," he answers distractedly amid ironing out an odd wrinkle in his future plans, eyes fixed on his screen.

"You not looking!" Sherlock shoots back, gaze sharp and brows pulled down in annoyance.

"I _am_." Now. "It's wonderful, baby. Really."

Huffing in anger, Sherlock turns away and begins cramming squashy handfuls into a plastic cup and then hacks at it with a fork, beating and slicing and poking, bright blobs of blue sparking everywhere. Moriarty stops working to watch the frantic movements, eyes crinkling in amusement. Finally, he asks, "Uh... whatcha doing, Munchkin?"

"I'm making ice-cream!" he announces proudly.

Jim's lip quirks. "Really?"

"Uh-huh!" He nods eagerly. "It's blueberry."

He represses an eye roll. How original.

"Sounds fantastic, Munchkin."

Thrusting the cold lump under the consulting criminal's nose, Sherlock demands, "Smell!"

Rolling his eyes but playing along, Moriarty screws up his face and exclaims, "Ugh, that's disgusting!"

His son's big blue eyes shine with pleasure. Giggling madly, he gives the crumbling play-dough another stir, before placing a hand over the top and shaking the container. "How about now?"

Moriarty leans forward and pretends to cautiously sniff. "Mm, much better," he hums, warmth rising in his chest as the boy's face breaks into a delighted beam.

When the 'ice-cream' is served up in a plastic dish shortly after, Moriarty picks up a spoon and fake slurps the gloopy mixture up, grinning at Sherlock's ensuing, jubilant laughter.

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As he does every night, Moriarty peers into his son's room to check on him before turning in himself.

The sight that greets him chills the consulting criminal to the bone.

The sheets are tangled in a heap on the mattress, the nightlight shines softly, his floppy-eared, stuffed doggie, Wilber, lies overturned on his side, a goofy smile sown into it's fabric forever.

The bed is empty.

And he knows. Moriarty knows without evidence, without facts or witnesses or bribes or deductions. He knows that he is gone.

His shoulders shudder. His

His son is gone.

Colliding against the wall, Moriarty slides to the floor and pulls his knees to his chest. He wants to take action, take hundreds of phone calls so that others can find what's been taken, take revenge so that no-one would dare take what is his again.

Take because _look_ what they've taken from him.

He wants to find the son of a bitch responsible and rip their head off. He wants to scream, cuss, kick, throw the most epic of epic fits. He wants to do something - _anything_.

But he can't. The pain is too great.

So he stares vacantly, silently, hugging his own limbs.

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, Jim bows his head and he cries - _look who's human._

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_Sorry, massively out of character at the end there, but hope everyone enjoyed._

_Thank-you so much for the continued support. Please do leave a comment as I have a number of stories on the go and they definitely keep me motivated. I appreciate every single ounce of feedback._


	5. Behind Enemy Lines

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**Behind Enemy Lines**

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**A/N:** Oh, wow. I fully expected to end the story after this chapter (I wasn't even supposed to write it in the first place!), but after the response to the last one, I thought it might be a good idea to write some more chapters which can stand as singular one-shots until people either get sick of my story alerts popping up in their inbox or I'm fresh out of ideas, whichever comes first. I don't know - but thank you for all the reviews! I can honestly say they are what kept this story alive and kicking, so thanks for being so awesome! I love in-denial Moriarty too.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

 **Warning:** some disturbing content at the beginning involving a child! Please feel free to skim over it!

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_They immerse him in ice_

_Ears subdued with a shock of water, rushing to his mouth,_

_Cold. So cold._

Daddy! Daddy!

_He gags, he splutters, he retches up watery vomit_

_Howls for everything he's worth until his tear-ducts shrivel up into nothing._

_They never listen._

-I hear you-

_Chains bound tight. Mottled bruises._

_The tiny body can't take much more. Skin frost blue, drowning in shivers._

_They-_

DADDY! DADDY!

_Screams of anguish._

_Why won't you save me?_

-I-I'm _trying_ -

_Until_

_Until-_

_Pleas are beyond him._

_Dark skies. Hoping to catch a glimpse of the stars. Too dense, too murky. The darkness envelops them completely._

_Then rain. Rain too heavy. Each drop pounds on his battered torso. A last, desperate attempt to resuscitate._

_Ultramarine eyes now a glassy lake. Encrusted with the ice that exhausted them._

_So still… So peaceful._

_A lie so great it's painful._

-I'm here now, I'm coming-

_Sprinting, diving, dropping to the ground_

_Gathering the limp child in his arms_

_Hugging tight._

-Please don't leave me-

_He pats frozen cheeks,_

_shakes and shakes and shakes_

_Empty eyes roll backwards. No matter how much he wills him to, his son won't_ _-_

_will never-_

_Wake._

_Up-_

Moriarty bolts upright, breathing hard and drenched in sweat.

He doesn't sleep again.

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As soon as he comes round, Sherlock scans the alien environment and cowers at the appearance of an unfamiliar figure. He's groggy and confused and the first words out of his mouth are a curt, fearful, "Who you?"

"My name is John," he responds gently, advancing slowly and hunkering down. "Don't you remember me, Sherlock?"

"Get 'way!" Sherlock immediately screeches, scrambling backwards into the corner. "Wan my Daddy! Gimmie my Daddy!"

Concealing his surprise, John raises his hands in a gesture of surrender and gentles his expression even further. Wrapping his voice in comforting tones, he placates the hysterical young child, "Hey, hey. It's okay, kiddo. Calm down, you're safe now-"

"Daddy! Daddy! _Daddy_!" He kicks out his legs like a feral wildcat when the soldier attempts to approach and glares hotly.

Sighing, John stands and pinches the bridge of his nose. He is _so_ in over his head.

After months and months and months of worrying and searching and visualising nonstop vile, unspeakable scenarios, fretting that Sherlock could be dumped in a ditch somewhere, never to be seen again, he has no idea how to deal with _this_.

An amnesic, kid Sherlock screaming at the top of his lungs for his mortal enemy - where do you even begin?

" _DADDY_!"

"Lord have mercy on my soul," John mutters and wipes his brow.

Two hours later and he still hasn't made any headway. Sherlock continues to eye him sceptically and is rocking himself back and forth and chewing his thumbnail when Mycroft pays them a visit. He takes one long look at the scene and sighs, rich with disapproval and disappointment.

"John…why is he crying?" he asks flatly with a vaguely curious expression, flicking an accusatory glance his way. "I came to see if you'd made any progress. Evidently you have not."

"It's not my fault! I don't know what to do!" John fires back. "He won't stop bloody screaming for Moriart-"

At this, Sherlock's squeals start anew and grow shriller, harsh on his raspy throat. "DADDY! WAN DADDY!"

Quickly losing his patience, having burned that out over an hour ago, John fists his hair and unsympathetically hisses, "Your Daddy's not coming!"

Sherlock's shrieks abruptly cut off - shocked into silence.

Voice small and shaky, he peeks up at him from over the tops of his knees and asks, "No-no Daddy?"

"No Daddy," he confirms with a decisive nod, crossing his arms and taking a deep breath.

Astonishing the two men, Sherlock gives an agonised _wail_ and begins crying harder.

The sound is chilling.

As the toddler's face crumples with pure devastation, John rapidly begins regretting his rash words. Between hiccups and salty tears, he repeats over and over _and over_ again, "Daddydaddydaddydaddy. M'sorry Daddy."

"Fantastic, Doctor," the elder Holmes comments mildly, ending the horrified hush that had fallen over the pair. "Well done. And here I thought you were _good_ with children."

He stiffens, shoving away the guilt. "I don't see you doing any better!"

"Fix. It," Mycroft commands, before sending a faintly concerned look his brother's way and leaving.

Sherlock is still shaking, teeth clattering and runny snot leaking from his nostril when John braces himself and says, "I'm sorry, buddy. I didn't mean to yell."

The little boy tries to stifle his sobs and he whispers in a cracking voice, "Daddy…D-daddy dead?"

He stumbles back, stunned. "What? No! _Jesus_. You-you've got it all wrong. Your…your Daddy, he had to, ah, go away. On-on business. He sent me to take care of you."

Stilling at once, Sherlock narrows his eyes and states with utmost certainty, "Daddy dun do that."

John's lost. "Huh?"

"Daddy say bye." Oh, for the love of-

"He didn't have time," the older man explains patiently.

Sherlock continues as if he didn't hear him, " _And_ you not on the list. Me know. Me saw it."

"Li-list?" John shakes his head to focus. He will not be outwitted by a two-year old. "It was a last minute decision-"

"You took me." It's not framed as a question. He states it like a fact.

Aw, shit.

"No," John splutters. This has just taken a horrible turn for the worse. "I didn't-"

"My Daddy donna get you. He find me and he oot you balls off."

"Sherlock!"

"He'd do it."

With those steady, menacing eyes fixed on his, John is inclined to believe him. "You know, for someone so cute, you sure are scary when you're threatening me."

"No like 'oo," Sherlock huffs, turning away with a wavering lower lip.

He rubs his forehead. "That…that much is clear."

After that, Sherlock refuses to talk beyond blubbering a few words here and there, mostly variations of, 'Wan my Daddy,' or, 'You not my Daddy,' or even, 'My Daddy tome get me 'oon.' He appears to be very much stuck in that possessive, hero-worship stage, (though at times it feels like he emphasises the 'my' solely to piss him off) and it's soon made _abundantly_ clear that nothing in the world means more to him than that jackass Moriarty.

He doesn't know whether to feel heartbroken or seriously ticked off.

Sherlock also rejects any food that's brought to him and amuses himself by throwing ripped up scraps at John when he comes in.

He fights so incredibly hard during nappy changes that Sherlock could warrant being sedated - and to his shame, John almost wishes he could be. But holy hell, that kid can _bite._

Mycroft arranges for a therapist to come evaluate him, who wastes no time diagnosing the young child with Stockholm Syndrome, but all John can see is a scared little kid who just wants his Daddy. From the medical exam, he knows that Sherlock was never abused and that, quite frankly, confounds him. In all his wildest imaginations, John would never have dreamed that Moriarty would be the kind of kidnapper (or Christ, _father_ ) to huddle up and read cosy bedtime stories, but going by Sherlock's complete inability to sleep without some special 'magic' blanket, he might very well have been.

He begins to question of what benefit this is to anyone. It's with a heavy heart that John must acknowledge this entire experience had been extremely distressing for the frightened child and could be doing more harm than good.

God, Sherlock was _happy_ with Moriarty - and he can't believe he ever thought that. He must be going mental.

It's just that... Nothing is what he'd expected. Nothing is making any sense.

Then one day while trying to coax the youngster out of bed, he plucks up the courage to request, "Can I ask you one thing, Sherlock? Please. I'd really appreciate it if you could answer me truthfully."

Sherlock peers up at him with a hard, distrustful set to his mouth that makes him wince internally.

"Did Moria-" He pauses to rephrase. "Did your Daddy…?" He blows out a breath, then finally settles on, "Was he good to you?"

Sherlock arches over into the foetal position. Voice muffled against the pillow, he toys with a loose thread and replies, "He call me Munkin."

John exhales noisily and frowns.

What does any of this _mean_?

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He still can't sleep and he doesn't want to.

He misses choking back a charmed laugh as Sherlock stumbles around with his shoes on the wrong feet and then sitting the little boy down and gently correcting them. He misses spraying under the bed at night with 'Monster Deterrent' (otherwise known as water) to scare all the bad monsters away. He misses when Sherlock clambers up onto the couch to play with his fingers, forcing him to tap out an email one-handed.

Moriarty misses his son. Dearly.

During the day he uses all of his connections available and more, calling in favour after favour to look for him (his rage does admittedly help fuel those creative death threats) and at night, Moriarty curls up on his son's bed and wraps himself in the toddler's cherished blankie. He stays up nursing a glass of whiskey while reviewing security tapes and trying to taper down something that feels irreparably broken inside of him.

Especially as he unconsciously manipulates the soft, fuzzy fabric in what seems remarkably reminiscent of an attempt at self-comfort.

Then, mere moments away from throwing in the towel and drinking himself into oblivion, Moriarty spots something out of his peripheral vision. He zooms in on the target and enhances the indistinct picture.

 _Well_ , _well, well_ , he leans forward and rubs his hands together. What have we got here?

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This time when he opens the door, he knows exactly what - or more accurately, who - is waiting for him.

After his discovery, his clue, their mistake, it took Moriarty all of three hours to track down the assclowns once he identified who was behind his son's well-orchestrated disappearance.

To say he was livid would be an immense understatement - though if he were honest, Jim might confess to feeling a tad thankful that his son has been in relatively good hands even if he personally yearns to claw their eyes out for their misguided best intentions.

The security personal have all been taken out and Moriarty estimates he's got ten minutes tops before John realises something is wrong. He's in no rush.

He creeps over to the crib _(prison)_ and leans over the bars, his teeth clamping at the sight of his little one wide awake at three in the morning.

Sherlock's face lights up when he sees him and he cries, "D-daddy!" craning and squirming and kicking away his restrictive blanket _(puke yellow and all kinds of sinful)_ in a frantic bid to make contact. His fingertips finally brush against his ear and accidentally poke Jim's lip, who doesn't even notice when his lips begin to take the shape of the most damning of damning smiles, fond and appallingly gentle.

Heaving himself upwards, Sherlock throws his arms around him at the same time that Moriarty lifts him out, fisting the back of his shirt. Releasing a ragged sigh, Moriarty strokes the youngster's trembling frame and peppers his face with kisses.

"I missed you. Daddy missed you so much, baby."

"D-d-daddy," he sniffles, clinging to him desperately. "You didn-didn' tome. 'Cared."

"Shh, I know, I know. I'm so sorry. I'm here now. Daddy's never leaving you again," he murmurs, erasing hot tears with the pad of his thumb and resting his chin on his head. Sherlock cuddles into his father's chest, thumb delving deeper into his mouth as he is calmed by the familiar musky scent with crisp, woodsy tones.

Moriarty continues rocking and soothing the exhausted toddler, tracing circles on his back, who eventually falls asleep to the sound of his Daddy's quiet voice, crooning

_Star light, star bright_

_The first star I see tonight_

_I wish I may, I wish I might_

_Have the wish I wish tonight_

Moriarty's heart squeezes as his Munchkin yawns and absently snuggles into the warmth of his neck. He blinks rapidly, eyes pricking. Safe in his arms, the relief threatens to sweep him away.

Christ, this kid.

What in heaven's name is he doing? None of this is right. Or maybe it's so right that it's wrong, he doesn't know. He has a pretty skewed view of both of them.

For the first time in a long time, Jim feels doubt.

He doesn't like it.

All of a sudden, John bursts into the room with his gun drawn and proud, spoiling the moment. He freezes at the sight of the father and son's reunion, flabbergasted.

He opens and closes his mouth. "How…? What on earth is happening right now?"

"Oh, hi there, John." His razor sharp eyes pore over the smaller man with noticeable distaste. "Jim Moriarty, contract killer at your service. Lest you've forgotten."

"Goodness, no." He visibly pulls himself together and swallows his surprise, Adam's apples bobbing. "Seem to recall quite a few fatalities last time we bumped into each other. My, ah, my memory is still perfectly intact, thank you."

"Good, good," he mutters, "Glad to hear it."

John slowly lowers his gun.

Eventually, never relaxing, he demands, "What are you doing here, Moriarty?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just thought I'd pop in. See how you're keeping. How is your sister, by the way? Still scraping by on minimum wage? Well, that is the economy for you." The man rolls his eyes and snorts, dropping the politely interested tone. "What do you think I'm doing, you imbecile? Talk about daft questions. You didn't seriously think I was going to let you walk away with him just like that, did you? You must be joking."

"Well, um," John scratches his nose. "There was always the possibility you'd, er, gotten bored playing house. I'd hoped it might be a welcome load off your shoulders."

"Did you now?" The consulting criminal purses his lips. "That's very thoughtful of you."

John clears his throat and shuffles awkwardly, glancing off into the distance. "I try."

"Yes, yes, very admirable. Your gun?"

The soldier jerks at the sudden change of topic. "Right here."

"That's nice. Handy, too," he remarks, before gently easing a dead to the world Sherlock down on the bed. He pries his fingers off his shirt, cards featherlike fingers through his hair, then pulls away. "Well. While we're on the subject, you might as well shoot me now," Moriarty suggests in a cavalier manner, somehow managing to maintain an effortless air of flippancy despite the tense atmosphere. "Even you know there's no way those blundering dumbos can keep someone like me locked up forever. I mean… _Yeesh_. Do you know how long it took them to locate me? That's tragic even by Scotland Yard's standards. Yeah, I'll admit, it's been hilarious watching those amateurs pursue countless hoax leads and run around in circles like silly widdle puppies chasing their own tails, but _come on_. How embarrassing."

"There's nothing for you here, Moriarty," the soldier says stiffly, shoulders squared in defiance. "Go find some new obsession to fritter away your time. Leave us alone."

"It's not as straightforward as that, Stud Muffin. Do keep up." Blazing stare connecting with his, Moriarty prowls forward and his voice warps into a furious snarl, "You wanna hide him away? Fine. But I will _never_ stop searching for him. I will _never_ give up on my son. So you better make away with me now, Doctor. Otherwise, stay the hell away from what's mine."

"I'll do it," John warns, steadily raising his gun and training the weapon on the other man. "Don't push me."

"Do you think so?" Expression turning thoughtful, he massages his chin and pokes his cheek with his tongue. "You're _really_ going to traumatise an innocent little tot by shooting his father in cold blood right in front of him? Deep sleeper though he may be, I have a sneaking suspicion Sherlock won't sleep through a gun shot."

John glowers at him fiercely.

"Nah," Moriarty flutters hand, letting loose a frivolous smirk, "I'm not so convinced the brave little veteran soldier has the guts. Sounds a bit _insensitive_ to me. Not to mention, you'd be single-handedly destroying any chance of teeny Sherlock trusting you - or, well, anyone - ever again. Not after something like that. No matter what lies you spin him. You'll be the bad guy. The big ol' meanie who murdered his father."

"You are _not_ his Dad," John asserts quickly, voice dark and nearing a growl.

"Quite so," Jim agrees, ducking his head and slipping his hands in his pockets. "See - I'm much more than that. I'm his primary caregiver, his substitute mother, his friend, his playmate, his confident, his hero, his role model, his protector…Shall I go on? It's a moderately impressive résumé, if I do say so myself."

"What you are is delusional," John snaps. "Nothing more than a blasted infatuated lunatic."

Waggling a disapproving finger, Moriarty tsks, "Now, now. Settle down. No need to get nasty. We're all gentlemen here." At the other man's incredulous, blustering sigh, he adds with mock regret, "I know how terribly you'd like to believe I'm some monstrous captor, Doctor. Say it ain't so and all that. But denial truly isn't a good look for you. Green's more your colour. Brings out your eyes."

"Oh, go screw yourself."

"Hey, you're the one who spent the past five days with the kid. You tell me: did he twist his curls before bedtime? Tug his ears very much? Did he even sleep at all? He does that, you know. When he's missing me. Sherlock likes to stroke my face or pull on my hair before he can nod off - it's so darling. There's also the unfortunate matter of his blankie, I trust you understand. Pity you couldn't have grabbed one of his spares when you broke into his home and abducted him. Would've made the whole process go a lot smoother."

" _I_ am not the kidnapper here!" He stabs a finger to his chest, face contorting as veins pop up from under his skin so irately that Moriarty is almost alarmed that it will split from the pressure. " _I_ am not the-the _murdering_ _ **psychopath**_!"

"That's the spirit. Get it all out. What's the use in bottling everything up, hey, Sugar?" Moriarty chuckles softly, almost purring. "Don't worry about hurting my poor, humble feelings or anything. I can take it."

Jaw cast in rigid infuriation, John shakes his head tightly and grits, "You arrogant bastard."

Eyes slimming in amusement, a small smirk grabs hold of his lips like a hook - tugging and tugging, before levelling into an expression of playful glee. He wets his lips, brown eyes dancing.

"Face it, John. I got to him first. Sherlock's loyalty is to me and only me. I am going to stroll out of here in one dashingly handsome piece with my beautiful little bundle of joy and one day you are going to regret not disposing of me when you had the chance. Because, mark my words, you little glorified sidekick, there's only one place for people who stand in the way of me and my son and it's never too early to go coffin shopping."

"Why not kill me now, then?" he points out in angry confusion, brows bunching. "I'm not an idiot-"

Moriarty bites back a wicked grin. "Jury's still out on that one-"

"-I know you have your dutiful snipers lurking around here somewhere."

He tips his head, allowing that. "I _am_ rather proficient, aren't I?"

"Is there any particular reason you haven't already given the signal? I can't fathom why you'd stall."

Unsettling the doctor, the consulting criminal's lips coil into a deadly, predatory smile and his stomach turns with sudden nausea.

"Because I don't want to simply kill you, Doctor Watson," he utters coldly. "I want to watch you squirm."

The greatest torture of all at this point is the inscrutability of his motives. The torment of imagination. Wondering what Moriarty might do. How might he punish Sherlock? And being totally helpless to do jackshit about it.

"You don't care about him," John says with conviction, hands clenching into fists by his sides. "You're not capable of it."

Moriarty laughs. "I'm capable of a lot of things, Twinkle Toes. But you're right: caring is not one of them."

Turning to the slumbering boy, he smoothly draws the sleepy child into his arms, one hand bracing his lower back. A hoarse whimper slips and Sherlock automatically reaches out to tease Moriarty's hair between his grabby fingers, before stilling - mollified once again. Blotches of red stain his cheeks and his fluffy locks are in soft, disorderly tangles, which the man flattens with one hand.

The scene is unbearably heart-warming.

A trace of tenderness flashes across Moriarty's face as he gazes down at the sluggish toddler - so quickly John should have no trouble convincing himself it was all in his head.

But the image is burned into the back of his mind.

And John wonders.

"Until next time, Johnny-boy," Moriarty grins. He slaps him on the back. "Good talk."

He fears he might never see Sherlock again.

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_Oh Dear. Worst. Custody. Dispute. Ever._

_Hope you liked the Moriarty/John showdown. Fun, no? Please let me know what you think. That's my longest chapter yet._


	6. From The Inside

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**From The Inside**

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**A/N:** I don't think it's _wrong_ to like Moriarty in this story. It's perfectly natural to root for the ruthless, psychotic villain…Right? *wrings hands nervously*

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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Sherlock lies on his belly on the floor innocently playing with his toys. His features are absorbed as he exuberantly propels small plastic cars across the living room and watches them hurtle towards the wall with a faint allusion of a calculating smile.

Normally, Moriarty would tell him off for such behaviour because as much as he loves to egg on the miniature public menace, he is sick of repainting that damn flaking wall. But today he lets him lob his toys around to his little heart's content with a lenient, if a bit forced, _Boys will be boys._ And he waits until the moment is right.

Determined to take advantage of his distraction, Jim holds his breath and begins creeping towards the door. He'll only be gone for a minute. Two, tops. No way he'll notice. Not this time.

"Daddy! Daddy! Tome pay!"

He stills.

"But I played with you all morning, silly goose," Moriarty points out, voice slightly strained as he struggles not to groan openly.

"No, no, no!" the little boy gripes, scowling. "You havta _pay_!"

No, what he _has_ to do is take a piss. Badly. Preferably by himself every now and then. Is that so much to ask for?

The prospect of even a split second of solitude is so mouth-wateringly alluring. He _needs_ his space.

But ever since the abduction a few weeks ago, thoughts of a more permanent goodbye have been plaguing the youngster and he flat out refuses to let Moriarty out of his sight. At first he chalked it up to being naturally upset over a terrible trauma and that his Munchkin would recover soon enough so long as he provided adequate reassurance, but then the damn near crippling fears simply never went away.

The separation anxiety has gotten so bad that even bathroom visits are no longer off-limits, and it feels as if his every move is being dictated by a pint-sized, babbling toddler who is _physically_ incapable of eating with a fork without making a rainbow-splattered murder scene out of food.

He is _this_ close to cracking.

Well. You know what they say. Drastic times call for drastic measures.

Controlling his grimace, he swings back around and arranges a cheerful smile to lilt, "Okie-dokie, Munchkin. You're the boss." Spying an overflowing basket over by the couch, he is struck by inspiration. "But can you do Daddy a super duper favour and fold these shirts for him? Hmm? Here, I'll show you." Under the little boy's curious stare, he grabs a shirt from the mound and doubles the freshly-pressed material over bit by bit until it's a neat, even square. "There you go. Easy peasy. Now it's your turn."

He picks up a day-old tee of his that no doubt smells like him and hands it to the youngster, causing Sherlock to peer up at him in confusion. "Why?"

"Because Daddy has _heaps_ and _heaps_ of laundry to do and he could really use a clever little helper to lend a hand and sort it all out. I don't know how I'll ever finish this all by myself!" Never mind the fact that he would never contemplate folding his own clothing in a million, billion years - not like _common_ people - and isn't that what he pays the housemaids for? Does Sherlock think he allows strangers to wander around his home for the sheer heck of it?

"I help, Daddy!" he cries, bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement. "Me helper!"

"Goodness gracious, lucky me," Moriarty gasps with mock delight while smirking inwardly. Worked like a charm. "Now, just like I showed you, okay?"

As if trying to smother him with sweetness, Sherlock presents his father with a radiant, dimpled grin. "Okay, Daddy! Me doo-dood as, as dold!"

Grinning, he ruffles the youngster's fluffy locks and agrees, "Uh-huh, sweetheart. Good as gold."

While Sherlock busies himself with the pointless task, Moriarty wastes no time heading for the door. Operation _Piss By Himself_ is a raring success and, apparently on a roll, both operation _Shave Without Mentally Scaring Your Son_ and _The Fastest Shower In History_ also go down without a hitch. He walks in and out of the room periodically, all the while maintaining an open line of communication, asking random physics questions and admiring Sherlock's folding skills to keep his focus on his accomplishments rather than Moriarty's momentary absences. He can hardly believe it goes so smoothly.

But of course it isn't that simple.

Later when he sitting at his desk thoughtfully clicking a pen and waiting for one of his well-to-do clients to get in touch, the door is pushed open and a tiny tot stumbles into his study, knuckling his eyes and sniffling.

"Sherlock? What are you doing up?" Moriarty frowns, consulting his watch. "You should be fast asleep. It's way past your bedtime."

"Daddy," the toddler blubbers, sad eyes shiny with unshed tears.

"Hey, hey," he murmurs, definitely _not_ alarmed as the lethargic child climbs onto his lap. "What's with the waterworks? Did my poor Munchkin have another bad dream? Is that it?"

"Just-just miss 'oo," Sherlock mumbles into his neck, half-delirious with sleep as his thumb seeks his lips. An anxious hand seizes strands of his brown hair and clings with a deathly-tight grip. It's clear he's only half-awake and is unlikely to remember any of this come morning.

"Miss me?" the consulting criminal echoes, frowning faintly. "I'm right here."

"You-you'we working."

Kneading his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, Moriarty sighs wearily. "Well, yeah. I have meetings and responsibilities and lots and lots to do, but you're my top priority, Munckin. Always. Nothing gets in the way of me spending time with you."

"Just miss 'oo," he repeats, pulling his thumb out his mouth and patting his Daddy's jaw-line with a wonderfully slobbery hand. Moriarty just sits back and takes it.

"I know, Munchkin," Jim hums. "Miss you too." He holds Sherlock so that his head is resting against the older man's chest while a steady hand supports his back and a rogue thumb rubs in comforting circles.

Squirming a little, the child's lids droop and within minutes, he is out for the count.

Looks like someone's sleeping in his bed tonight.

That kid has him wrapped around his finger like nothing else imaginable. And he damn well knows it too.

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On a Thursday afternoon during their regular colouring session, the duo receive an unexpected visitor.

Moriarty is helping Sherlock shade his cowboy's hat when a dark figure walks uninvited into his home. Instantly tensing, he tightens his hold on his son on impulse, but relaxes when he recognises the familiar features and tasteful grey suit.

"Unca Seb!" Sherlock screeches, wriggling free of the man's grip and sliding off his lap in order to make a mad dash towards the unanticipated guest.

"Hey there, lil' guy!" he says warmly, grinning as he tosses him up into the air and catches him. "Long time no see. What have you been up to?"

Suddenly shy, Sherlock ducks his head and stiffly shrugs. Sebastian frowns but sets him down on the floor again, allowing the little boy to run back to the safety of his Daddy and push his face into Moriarty's leg, peeking out timidly.

"Sebastian," Moriarty greets coolly, affectionately squeezing the back of the boy's neck and grazing the ends of his dark hair with his thumb. "This is a nice surprise."

"That _was_ the idea," he declares. "No-one's heard from you in weeks. What's the deal with that?"

"There was a rather unpleasant incident while you were gone that demanded my attention," he explains with a disdainful jerk of the mouth.

"So I heard."

Moriarty appraises him. "Then you must know why I've gone off the grid."

"I do," Sebastian concedes, nodding. "He's okay, though? He looks okay to me."

"It was an extremely harrowing ordeal, as you can imagine," Moriarty tells him, with a steel in his tone that promises he won't back down. "My continuous presence has been non-negotiable."

"Right, right. Figures," the other man mutters, before saying suddenly, "Hey, Sherlock? Can I speak to your Dad in private for a moment?"

Moriarty narrows his eyes in suspicion.

Cramming his fingers into his mouth, Sherlock scowls and protests, "No. My daddy." Without even looking, Moriarty reaches down and removes the sopping digits with a mild, "No fingers."

"Yeah, sure thing, kiddo," Sebastian answers, smiling at the timid toddler. "But can I maybe borrow him for a little bit? I promise I'll give him right back."

Considering this, the child sucks on the upturned collar of his jacket and responds unsurely, "Me dunno…"

"Ah, ah, ah," Moriarty scolds as he carefully extracts the damp fabric. "What did I say about chewing on clothing?"

The toddler sighs long-sufferingly and drags, "It _icky_."

"It sure is. So cut it out, would you?"

"But-but Unca Seb trying to-to 'teal 'oo way!" the little boy exclaims with wide eyes as if tattling on a pre-schooler whose taken his toy.

Feigning horror, Moriarty slaps a hand over his mouth and turns to the other man with a scandalised face. "You wouldn't do a naughty thing like that, would you, Uncle Seb?"

He shakes his head seriously. "I would not."

"Well, there you have it," the father proclaims. "Hear that, baby? I'm not going anywhere. I swear to you, I'll be right over here. You'll be able to see Daddy the whole time."

"But-but- _Mine_ ," he insists, latching onto Moriarty's hand and tugging.

Reminding himself to practise that pesky patience instead of losing his temper, Jim hunkers down to his son's eyelevel and appeases, "Yes, Sherlock. I'm your Daddy, not Uncle Seb's. But that doesn't mean that I can't talk to other grown-ups. Do you understand? Sometimes little boys and girls have to share their Daddies. That's just how it is."

"But-"

"No buts. Go finish your race track," he instructs, pushing him gently in the direction of his play pen. "I'll come take a look at it soon. Go on. Shoo." When Sherlock continues to glance up at him mournfully, he hardens his heart and claps his hands together briskly. "Less moaning. More playing."

Accepting that his Daddy is never going to budge on this matter, the sulking toddler finally leaves, dragging his feet loudly over to the growing assemble of cars, lorries, fire trucks and motorbikes strewn across the soft rug and dropping down with a pout.

"Sorry about that." Moriarty half-heartedly pulls a face and shrugs. "He's a little possessive at the moment."

"I can see that," Sebastian responds with amusement, one brow hoisted upwards as if in challenge.

"It's just a phase-"

"I bet it is."

"He'll grow out of it soon-"

The other man tosses him a taunting smirk. "Well, you _are_ the expert."

Refusing to rise to the bait, he insists, "It's a normal, healthy stage of a child's development-"

"Uh-huh."

"It doesn't change anything."

The smirk grows more pronounced. "Not a single thing."

Getting straight to the point, Moriarty frowns in distaste and carelessly questions, "What do you want, Sebastian?"

"Look, Jim. I get it. You needed to clear your head and be there for your little one. That's cool. We all need a tea break every once in a while. Listen, you know I am the founding member of your quest of fatherhood fan-club. But there are a number of urgent matters that could sincerely benefit from your assistance and some folks are getting real angsty over your lack of guidance of late."

"Oh, boo fucking hoo," Moriarty mocks with a twisted smile. "Turns out, idiots are idiots. I'm _astonished_."

"They're losing faith that you can get the job done, Jimmy," he reveals with a grim expression that borders on worried. "I can't do this alone. This is not the time to be giving the cold shoulder."

His jaw hardens but Moriarty reacts with the lightest of tones. No surprise there. "I understand, Sebastian. I reaalllly do. However-"

"Lemme guess: the kid needs you? Far be it from me to say you're slacking, but you've been holed up here for an eon with no signs of the fertile springtime to your unforthcoming hibernation. Whatever happened to Katrina?"

"Oh, her? Fired," he replies with abnormal airiness, a distinctly unapologetic lilt to his mouth. "I sent her packing the day she overdosed him on sugar and E numbers."

"Faye?"

"Long gone." He sounds almost bored. "The bi-witch filled his head with all sorts of nonsense. I couldn't very well tolerate that, could I?" He shrugs. "Same goes for Antonia."

"Why?" Sebastian asks curiously. "What'd they do?"

"Taught the tot how to tie his own shoelaces, and master the art of donning a t-shirt that isn't inside out and back to front. It was an atrocity. It is especially difficult to stamp out such unfortunate complications as encouragement. What else was there to do but eradicate the source?"

"You're kidding, right? Please, tell me you're kidding," he states, disbelief written in his features. "You realise you can't keep him helpless and dependant forever, don't you? He's going to grow up."

He doesn't look angry. Instead, he wears no expression. Sebastian can't decide which is worse.

"I am well versed in the functioning of the human anatomy, Sebastian. But don't deny me my fun. You've seen how proud he is when he dresses himself despite getting every conceivable thing _wrong_. It's adooorrable."

"I'm just saying," Sebastian defends himself. "Don't you think you're taking this a little too far? That's a tall glass of water for any nanny. You're picking and choosing which _basic_ requirements they comply with."

"So I have high standards. Or low - depending on where you're standing. You act as if I'm not scrupulously searching for a suitable replacement."

Sebastian crosses his arms and cocks a brow. "Are you?" he inquires pointedly.

The consulting criminal pauses and licks his lips. "…It's very tricky business-"

"That's what I thought," he remarks wryly. Sebastian squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, before exhaling forcefully and suggesting, "Alright, fine. Then what if I kept an eye on him for today so that you can go back to terrorising the neighbourhood? Would that be acceptable? Once in a lifetime deal. C'mon, you'd be a fool to turn it down. You need to get back in the game sometime."

"I don't know, Seb…Sherlock is-"

"Exceedingly clingy? That's alright. Good thing I'm exceedingly good at distracting." He snorts suddenly. "Oh, and FYI, you've got a little, erm, something there-" He stretches over and flicks a small morsel out of Moriarty's hair. Presumably the same morsel that must have landed there earlier after a certain scoundrel who shall not be named threw a spectacular strop over breakfast. "Rice krispie fan, huh?" Sebastian comments, pressing his lips together to stop himself from sniggering. "Fancy that. Yummy _and_ nutritious."

Glowering with unmistakably sadistic intent, Moriarty breathes, "Not. A. Word."

He mimes zipping his lips and backs off with a playful grins. "Oh, no doubt. My lips are sealed."

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After leaving to get changed into a devilishly handsome suit (devil being the operative word) while Sebastian distracted the tot with a handful of neat little card tricks that didn't fool him in the least, his astute eyes tracking every sly movement and resulting in him failing oh so very miserably, Moriarty nonchalantly returns and pulls him aside for a rundown of the 'basics.'

"Sherlock knows the rules," the consulting criminal tells him, tucking his hands in his pockets. "It's beddy-byes by seven, no exceptions, and he's not allowed any of those toxic fizzy juices no matter what lies he tries to sell you. I am not letting my son become a poster boy for diabetes."

"Got it," Seb chimes.

"There are some healthy snacks in the fridge if he's peckish and puzzles in my study to keep him occupied-"

"Mhm." He should probably write some of this shit down. "Duly noted."

"Don't plop him down in front of the telly for hours either. I will not have you murdering his brain cells with any of that primitive crap they flog nowadays as entertainment-"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"I imagine he'll get rather restless come bedtime," he frets, which is ridiculous because Moriarty doesn't _do_ fretting. "So make certain that he has his comfort blanket, and for a bedtime story, he likes _Why Do The Stars Come Out At Night_? It should make him relatively sleepy," Moriarty rhymes off, taking a deep breath and pausing for a second.

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. "You done?"

"Not yet. Don't forget to check that his nightlight is still plugged in and for Christ's sake, don't close the door all the way in. Not unless you want him to have a monster-induced heart attack."

"That everything? Would you like me to build a space rocket while I'm at it, too?" he quips. "Scale a skyscraper? I might have enough time to squeeze in a few unicorn rides if I'm lucky. Don't worry, though. I'll make sure he wears a helmet."

"Mind your tongue there, darling," Moriarty drawls with deadly calm, giving him a warning glare. "I'm meticulous. No harm in that."

"Right," Sebastian scoffs. "If that's what you want to call it. Meticulous, it is."

"Sherlock?" Jim calls, rolling his eyes at his friend. "Daddy has some work to do, so Uncle Seb's gonna take care of you while I'm gon-" Immediately, the sound of hasty footsteps ensues and a small body ploughs into his legs, hot arms winding around his leg and gripping tight.

"Dun go, Daddy!" he implores, infinite blue orbs swimming with instant-tears as they stare up at him pleadingly.

"Oh no," Moriarty swiftly counters. "Not the pathetic puppy-dog eyes. It won't work this time."

Forehead wrinkling pitifully, his eyes amplify to unbearably cute status, lips shuddering with the softest of sniffles.

Christ. It's like a punch to the gut.

"No," the young father repeats firmly. He has to stay strong. He's an outrageous, corrupt genius; he doesn't bow down to sad tiny children. "I have to go. It's not optional."

"That no fair!" Sherlock whines, stamping his foot petulantly. "No wan 'oo to go!"

"Ah, ah. No tantrums. It's unbecoming of you. Now be a good boy for Daddy, okay?" He bends down to kiss his crown. "I'll be back before you know it." Then, turning to the other man, Moriarty orders, "Text me later. I want full, hourly updates."

"Will do," he assures with a carefree salute.

"I mean it. If anything happens, remember it's your ass on the line. If he so much as _sneezes_ out of place, I will tear out your jugular with my bare hands."

"Jeez, Jim," Sebastian says with mock hurt, pressing a hand to his heart. "That was almost offensive."

A muscle in his cheek tightens. "Sebastia-"

"What? You need to chill. Everything's under control. I think I can handle one high-maintenance, bloody toddler for one night."

Moriarty's eyes are blunt and savage. "If you're certain…"

"I am," Sebastian reaffirms, though gazing into _those_ he's not quite so sure. "Now beat it."

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They're sitting crossed-legged on the floor, knee-to-knee, after Sherlock demanded he play patty-cake. Now, though, they're engaged in a keenly intense staring contest which they seemed to have fallen into by some freak accident. Sebastian doesn't know why he thought he'd ever be able to outlast the former detective, drastically reduced age and short attention-span included.

At long last, as his watery eyes sting and blur, Sebastian finally concedes defeat.

He blinks.

Springing to his feet, Sherlock giggles in triumph and crows, "Ha! Beat 'oo! Beat 'oo!"

He doesn't know why he ever hoped he'd be a gracious winner, either. "You certainly did. Nice one, kiddo." He stands and brushes down his pants.

"What now, Unca Seb?"

"I dunno," he admits. Scratching his head, he gazes out at the sunlight streaming in from the large windows, an idea forming. "It's pretty dry outside. Wanna play some football? Or you not allowed fresh air because the risk of pneumonia or something? Do you even _have_ a ball?"

"Me have ball," Sherlock grumbles, insulted. He dashes down the hall and into one of the rooms. After some rummaging, he returns some moments later with a medium-sized orange ball and holds it up as if to say, _See_.

"Sweet. Let's go have some good, clean fun." As the little boy rushes to the door, he quickly snags the back of his tee and announces, "Hold up there, kiddo. I was only half-teasing. Your Dad'll kill me if you catch a cold." Snatching a blue duffel coat from where it stick outs among the collection of larger black coats, he holds it open and invites the boy to threat his arms through, before swiftly buttoning him up. "There we go. Snug as a bug."

He releases the youngster who sprints outsides without delay, struggling with the door handle for only a moment before hopping down the small steps onto the expansive green. For his latest breather, Moriarty has selected one of his beautiful country estates in a remote part of rural England - the epitome of privacy. Which is exactly how Sebastian knew where he would be.

It is really stunning, though.

The sky is a deep, azure blue and the lawn is mowed and well-kept, dotted with daisies. Fields of green burst out across the hillside and sunlight soaks the valley, vibrant and fresh. Birds cawing in the distance, the air batting gently against the lush leaves of the trees, Sherlock runs ahead, a wide, dazzling smile stretching across his face. He obviously hasn't been out here in a long time.

"Ready to kick ass, lil' man?" he asks as turns the ball in his hands.

"Unca Seb…" Sherlock pipes up, smile falling as he bites his lip and twists his fingers. "What 'ootball?"

"You've never heard of football before?"

Little brows crease. That's a no, then.

"…Soccer?"

His face remains blank and clueless. If a little embarrassed.

"Your Dad never play ball with you before?"

Sherlock shakes his head. His voice is questioning as he assumes, "Ball bad?"

 _Aw, damn you, Jim_ , he thinks. At this rate, he'll have that kid scared of his own shadow. That's the danger with over-protective parents. Especially ones who are all-too aware of the threats out there in the big bad world.

The sleeves of the boy's duffel coat swallow his tiny hands and every time he pushes them up, they slip down again. Kneeling down and deftly rolling them up, Sebastian tuts, "Shame on him. Part of me wonders if he ever intends for you to fine-tune those rusty motor skills of yours. I'm half-amazed he let you learn how to walk." When Sherlock tilts his head to the side in a gesture that is eerily _Moriarty_ -like, the man rolls his eyes and gets up. "Look, it's easy-peasy. All you have to do is give the ball a little kick with your foot. Tap it gently. Like that. See?"

Sticking out the tip of his tongue in concentration, Sherlock aims for the ball and swings, but narrowly misses, scuffing the ground with the top of his Velcro-strapped shoes and nearly falling backwards.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Sebastian chuckles, laying a hand on his back to steady him. "Take it easy, short stuff. Nice and careful. That's it."

He doesn't miss this time. Instead, he strikes it lightly and the ball rolls slowly across the grass. The boy giggles happily.

"Good job, buddy!" his uncle cheers. "Look at you! You'll be a pro in no time, I'm telling ya."

Beaming, they continue kicking the ball back and forth in the large back yard. More than once, the toddler's poor co-ordination gets the better of them and Sebastian has to jog across the yard to retrieve it from the bushes after it soars in the wrong direction.

Then all of a sudden during one commendable effort, his foot skids and the little boy trips. Flailing, he struggles to regain his balance and ultimately crashes into the pebble-dashed wall of the house, banging his head with a sickening thump.

"Sherlock!"

Sebastian runs over and gradually helps him up, heart hammering in his chest. With a low groan, the young child slowly raises his head and his vision is suddenly assaulted with red.

Brilliant red. Pouring from the wound.

"Huwts," Sherlock whimpers, blinking woozily and raising a hand to stem the blood flow.

"Holy crap," Sebastian mutters, gulping. "Holy, holy crap. It's official. I am gonna be one sorry bastard. I'm a frickin' goner."

There's no way he can convince him that this is a silly little bump. No way in hell.

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_Thanks for reading._

_I hope everyone is okay with me introducing my own (wildly inaccurate) version of Sebastian Moran, but I felt that there would be so much more potential for future stories if there were additional characters who Moriarty can interact with on a largely non-threatening level._

_Also: there will be more to come from John and Mycroft. I doubt it's the last we've seen of them._


	7. After the Fall

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**After the Fall**

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**A/N:** For some reason, I was quite anxious about this chapter and I…I don't know what to make of it. I hope you guys enjoy.

To xxXKmiXxx, I must say I totally, one-hundred percent adore both of your prompts. They are so awesome and I can only hope I can do them justice. Thank you very, very much. With any luck, I'll get started on those soon. If anyone else thinks of anything they might like to see, then feel free to send a prompt my way and I'll see what I can do.

**Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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The tot gets patched up easily enough. It's nothing too serious, looks worse - a lot worse - than it is. Not even a mild concussion, mercifully. Though everything after the fall is a bit of a blur.

Memories merge of panic and tears and furious red and helpless cursing, at a complete loss as to what to do. After carrying him inside and compressing a towel to the youngster's head, he'd grappled for the emergency number of Moriarty's private doctor, who must have broken more than one traffic law to get here as fast as he did. He'd smiled reassuringly at the upset toddler and gave him a red lollipop to suck while he checked him over with all of the thoroughness of someone who comprehends the cost of even a simple mistake.

In the end, Sherlock needed seven stitches.

The doctor's look was one of distress. It wasn't directed at the kid.

He calls out for his Daddy for the entire duration, tears streaming down his face, which only causes Sebastian to feel more and more terrified of Daddy dearest's reaction. Unable to stomach the thought himself, he asks (begs) one of the housemaids to make the call. He likes to believe she doesn't agree out of pity.

To distract the child while he waits for his pain meds to kick in, Sebastian sits on the couch beside him and teaches the little guy how to blow bubbles that he makes with some washing up liquid. "The trick is not to blow too hard, you hear? You gotta be gentle."

"Daddy say be gentle when me pull his hair. Wike that?"

"Ah.. Sure. What the heck."

Following a series of false starts during which he pouts crossly, Sherlock finally forms a string of successful bubbles, which he stares at in jaw-slacked amazement as they float farther and farther away, sparkling in the sunlight.

"Quick! Pop that one before it touches the floor," Sebastian urges with a playful grin. He's doing his best to make sure Sherlock stays clueless, that he never sees his smile waver.

Craning his neck, the bubble bursts on the tip of his nose and Sherlock squeals with delight, jumping. "Dot it, Unca Seb! Did 'oo see? Me dot it!"

"Easy on the jumping, tiger. Your head's still fairly tender."

"But me dot it!"

"Uh-huh. Way to go, kiddo. Up top, my man," he enthuses, beaming as the toddler clumsily slaps his hand and carefully ruffling his hair. "You wanna give it another try? Pretty awesome, right?"

Sherlock nods eagerly and dunks his plastic stick into the water, giving it an energised stir, before noisily blowing again. It's absolutely adorable, but Sebastian is all-too aware that his meter is running. Sooner rather than later, he'll have to pay the ugly price.

All of a sudden, something grabs him from behind and yanks him backwards. A hand grips his jaw, smothering his protest as sharp nails dig into his flesh and he is slammed against the wall. Cutting into his line of vision, a blade glitters above his Adam's apple.

He swallows thickly.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't play x's and o's with your throat right now," Moriarty grinds out, eyes alive with malice. He is almost demonic in his ferocity, settling hostile lips over a flash of teeth.

Moriarty has never looked more frightening than he does in that moment.

Livid and bloodthirsty, Jim's body twitches with the vehemence that courses through him - something so dominant, so potent, it can no longer be contained. No longer can he hide the truth. It ensnares him.

"Jim, it was an accident-" Sebastian explains quickly around his swollen tongue. "You've gotta believe me. I didn't mean to-"

"I should roast you alive for what you've done," he snarls, driving the knife closer, dribbles of blood pushing to the surface, "Two hours, Sebastian. I trusted you and you blew it within _TWO FUCKING HOURS_!"

Behind him, Sherlock violently flinches at the thunderous roar.

"Jim! Jim, will you calm the fuck down?!" Sebastian tries to reason, voice tight with strain. _"Jesus._ You're scaring him!"

His grip on the knife relaxes momentarily as if he'd only just remembered the little boy's presence, but before Sebastian can take advantage of this lapse in attention, Moriarty tightens his grip and his glare intensifies, scorching on his. "Sherlock, go to your room," he orders without turning, brusque and authoritative, "Get out. Now."

Eyes blown wide and infected with fear, the little boy takes one last, fleeting look at Sebastian before scurrying away, knocking over the bottle of bubbles which abruptly empties onto the floor, nothing more than a shimmering puddle.

A door bangs distantly.

Without warning, Moriarty releases him and he collapses to the ground as all the air rushes out of him, a searing pain left in its place. He clutches the side of his torso as blood begins to gush, soaking through his clothing and saturating his hands in a matter of seconds.

"L-listen," he pleads, coughing, "I have it on go-good authority that Erikson's been planning to strike and strike hard," Sebastian reveals, "He ain't happy with the downgrade in his share of the profits and he and some buddies have been dancing around a modest bargain with the competition, but at the moment no-one's exactly itching to make the first move."

Moriarty pauses. "And you didn't think to inform me of this sooner?"

"What can I say?" Sebastian chuckles bitterly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and stifling a groan. "It never hurts to have a little leverage. I was monitoring the situation."

"And if he'd switched sides?"

"It wouldn't have come to that," he counters forcefully.

Mouth wrenching into an ugly sneer, Jim laughs, a sinister, sickening sound that Sebastian cannot escape. "It's cute that you think I didn't already know about this," he remarks, simmering fire and wrath, "But thanks for the heads up. A rather disappointing show of worth, really."

He draws back and kicks him squarely in the chest. Sebastian's entire body shudders in agony.

He gasps, "Jimmy, you know that with you working part-time, I'm more of an asset to you than ever. You can't have eyes and ears everywhere. Somewhere along the line, you're gonna slip up. It's only a matter of time." He's slurring, fingertips tingling. This can't be it. "Don't discard one of the only allies in the business you have left. Not over this."

"I don't plan on killing you, Sebastian," Moriarty states, acid littering the foundations of his casual tone. "Believe it or not, you are a very dear to me and I'd hate to have to butcher all ties with a comrade who shares equal passion and appreciation for the craft, much less one who has served me so well over the years. I don't like getting my hands dirty and I don't give second chances, but… I'll make an exception just this once."

His face goes absolutely blank, thus telling him nothing. Moriarty's huge brown eyes turn opaque. Usually, Sebastian can predict his reaction, how every muscle would transform to portray an emotion, but today, interpreting his expression - or lack thereof - is next to impossible.

"An eye for an eye, Sebastian," Jim murmurs, before delivering a swift, final blow to the head. Effectively knocking him out.

Sebastian slumps, drenched in an expanding pool of his own blood, seeping liberally from the stab wound.

Pilfering a handkerchief from his suit jacket, Moriarty dabs the length of his hands and frowns at the darkened stain on his silver tie. What a shame. That was one of his favourites. Simply dashing along with his charcoal waistcoat. An impeccable ensemble, really.

"Clean this up," Jim tonelessly instructs his poker-faced workers, only their rigid postures betraying their fear. "I want it gone."

With a sigh, he steps over the unconscious body and tosses the sullied hankie over his shoulder, leaving a silky scarlet trail in his wake.

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To his surprise, an hour later, the door to Sherlock's room is fully open and he leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms at the discouraging display in front of him.

Dammit.

Propped up by chairs and sheltered by the bed is a magnificent fort, warmed by the dull glow of a flashlight. White sheets and extra blankets expand across the bedroom, clipped in place by worn clothes pegs. He even recognises his own bedspread, which is only to be expected - his Munchkin can't help but seek solace in things which remind him of Moriarty, whether through ownership or smell. Consequently, his belongings have an unfortunate tendency to spontaneously vanish.

He once came home after a short solo trip overseas to find Sherlock asleep swathed in his black scarf.

Nonetheless, it doesn't bode well for him.

Whenever Sherlock (or more accurately, whatever employees he can rope in with the aid of a doleful gaze) builds what he's taken to terming his 'Blankie Palace,' it usually signifies one of three things: he is bored and the wreckage alone is enough to keep him amused, he's ill/hurt/upset and is dire need of comfort, _or_ , last but certainly not least, he is pissed the fuck off and wants to be left the hell alone.

In this case, it just so happens to be a combination of all three.

Organizing a composed exterior with a smooth forehead and a calm, set smile, Moriarty crouches outside the grand structure and chirps, "Knock, knock, Munchkin. Can Daddy come in?"

_Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?_

The reply is immediate, "Go way. Not 'llowed in."

_Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll-_

"Pretty please?" he entices, adding a layer of the sweetest sincerity to his voice. "I brought goodies."

He hears the tiniest of sighs, followed by a unenthusiastic, "If 'oo must."

That's how it's done.

Suppressing a chuckle despite himself, Moriarty peels back a layer of the heavy covers and crawls inside the cramped space, mindful of the flashlight dangling from the crafted ceiling.

It's dim and comfy, if a little stuffy, with blankets spread out on the floor alongside an abundance of puffy pillows.

Kneeling in the centre, barefoot and clad in his cosy Mickey Mouse jammies, Sherlock is steadying a Batman action figurine on top of a white steed in preparation of their noble quest - if the past is anything to go by, they should be galloping over mighty mountains in the form of cushions and battling a ferocious 'beast' (also known as, Snuffles, the overweight teddy bear) in order to the save the beautiful princess who bears a striking resemblance to Superman. Not exactly a poor damsel in distress. But Moriarty never says anything. It's highly entertaining.

Today, though, he's not exactly in a carefree mood and he can't bring himself to properly enjoy the spectacle.

The sight of stitches mutilating his son's pale skin and bruises smearing his flesh ravages Moriarty's insides, and it takes him a few minutes to identify the horrible, relentless sensation. It feels…it feels almost like-like guilt? Except that couldn't be.

It couldn't.

If Moriarty didn't feel bad about blowing a woman's brains out in front of her haemorrhaging husband or beating his best friend within an inch of his life, then he's understandably not going to chastise himself over leaving his poor baby to soothe himself. Or for not-not being there. When he.. he needed him. No, that would be ridiculous.

Except…

Doesn't it sort of feel as though something has speared his lungs, ripped out in his innards, and lit his insides on fire? Doesn't it seem as if something is wringing out his stomach every time he catches a glimpse of his Munchkin's healing wound? Doesn't it hurt, quite a bit?

What else could this be, then, but guilt?

"Here you go, sweetheart," Jim says softly, passing the child his purple sippy cup and clearing his throat. "Daddy thought you might feel a bit better with some nice, warm milk in your tummy."

"Fank 'oo," Sherlock responds quietly, grasping the sippy cup and tipping it back, slowly draining the creamy contents as he inattentively fidgets with his blue blankie and peeks at his Dad out of the corner of his eye.

He smiles. "Wanna see what other surprises Daddy's got hidden up his sleeve?" Reaching into his inner pocket, he fishes out a small object and presents, "Ta-da!"

The little boy's face instantly falls into a frown.

A little startled, Moriarty questions, "Don't you want your sucker?"

He scowls and protests, "I too big, Daddy. Not a'spposed to have sucky."

Christ, not this again, he silently groans, rolling his eyes skyward. When will he learn that it's up to _Jim_ to decide when he's too old for anything? If he wants to fuss over him, he will. If he wants to baby him, fine. Enough of this silly independence.

He's in charge here.

"It'll be our little secret, Munchkin," Moriarty persuades in a conspiring whisper, bumping his shoulder against his little one's. "I won't tell if you don't. Come on. Be a good boy."

Sherlock looks as if he'd like to point out all of the many times his Dad has complained about him sucking on the ears of his stuffed animals or his fingers, but wisely, the kid holds back. He must sense that it wouldn't help his case. It's no shocker that a suspected madman is sending out mixed messages.

Moriarty is a network of contradictions.

Wrinkling his nose, the youngster asserts, "Not a baby."

"You're my baby," he utters simply, gaze steady. "Forever and always."

_You scared yet?_

"'Oo huwt Unca Seb," Sherlock states matter-of-factly, indicating his reddened knuckles and the small spot of blood on his right cufflink with a deepening frown.

It would be an insult to his intelligence to deny it. "He hurt you first," the father counters stubbornly.

"Daddy mean," the kid accuses, tone troubled.

Moriarty laughs. "Yeah," he shamelessly admits, eyes twinkling. "Little bit."

When Sherlock glances down and begins morosely playing with his toes, the young man heaves a sigh and gentles his tone to say, "That nasty ouchie made you very, very sad, didn't it? Well, Daddy doesn't like it when his Munchkin is sad. That's all. Daddy's very sorry."

Peeping up from under his lashes, Sherlock is silent for a long time, before cautiously opening his mouth and accepting the dummy - accepting his apology. The only sounds are those of meek, rubber squeaks and soft slurps as he shuffles over and curls up beside his father, who snakes an arm around him and hugs him securely.

Moriarty settles back and lets his eyes drift closed, lip unconsciously raising at one corner. But deep down, he knows.

Someday, like it or not, his baby will have to grow up.

Excuses wear thin. True colours shine through.

Someday, sorry won't be enough.

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Lounging back against the side of the bed, he links his hands casually behind his head, elbows poking out at either side, and stretches out his long legs beyond the perimeter of the fort, flowing fabric bunching at his crossed feet.

"Skittle?" Moriarty asks, extending the newly-opened packet for Sherlock to dip in a tentative hand and rustle around for a moment before popping a couple of the chewy sweeties in his mouth, while Jim himself knocks back a colourful handful.

He's not above bribery.

"Ticky?" Sherlock offers in return, holding up a shiny roll.

"Daddy would love a sticker, thank-you," Jim permits, features seeming much less harsh all of a sudden in the faint, cloaked light.

With some difficulty, the boy bites his lip and strips off a black skull sticker, and Moriarty stoops down so that the toddler can carefully paste it onto his forehead, lips teasing the makings of a doting smile as he straightens again.

Petting his silky hair as the child returns to his game, the man tilts his head and notes thoughtfully, "Remind me, you need to get your hair trimmed this week."

Big mistake.

Sherlock immediately snaps to attention with a grouchy, "No way! Dun wan hair cut!"

"Yes way," Moriarty maintains, wishing he'd never brought it up. "How else am I supposed to see my precious baby boy's angelic widdle face?" he coos, leaning in close and teasingly snapping his teeth. "Cute enough to eat, I think. Oh dear, on second thought… I might just have to gobble you up instead!"

His hand shoots out and tickles the boy under his chin who quickly ducks his head and dissolves into a puddle of hearty chortling. Targeting his established weak spots, the toddler squirms and kicks out his legs, almost screeching in glee.

"Dun-dun dobble me, Daddy!" the toddler pleads, gasping and gurgling at his father's silliness and swatting at his face. When Jim responds by pretending to munch on his scrumptious, little button nose, Sherlock wags a finger and admonishes, "No. Bad Daddy!"

Needless to say, that same finger soon ends up trapped in the consulting criminal's mouth.

Disaster averted. On both accounts.

Soon after he's calmed down and his breaths return to normal, Moriarty tugs the toddler onto his lap and listens to his astonishingly detailed recitation of his day, the only gleam in his eyes now a loving one, clouded with worship. Not a trace of disappointment left.

Checkmate, Sherlock.

Your move.

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_Thanks for reading._

_In this chapter, I really wanted to create this jarring contrast between Criminal-Moriarty and Daddy-Moriarty. Even at his best, he is very flawed and I was keen to portray his two, drastically different sides. Thoughts?_

_Oh, and Sebastian is definitely NOT dead. Just thought I'd clear that up just in case._


	8. Like Real People Do

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**Like Real People Do**

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**A/N:** Sorry, I didn't make this clearer in the previous chapter. Moriarty didn't cut Sebastian's throat very deeply. However, due to the pressure, he did make _a_ cut - just not a very serious one. The wound mentioned is a direct result of Moriarty stabbing Sebastian in the abdomen once Sherlock had left. I didn't explicitly state this, so any confusion is totally on me. Sorry again.

Please enjoy this new chapter.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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When he returns to the flat late one Sunday evening, the door is half-open and the most unwelcome of surprises is waiting for him, cup and saucer in hand and studying one of his papers.

"Must you always barge in here like you own the place?" John grumbles, as he stomps towards the kitchen to unload the grocery bags. "A little heads up would be nice."

"I have a lead," Mycroft coolly informs him. "Someone sent us a tip. This source has been...remarkably comprehensive."

"Is it trustworthy, do you think?"

"Seems to be. Looks like we've caught ourselves a snitch." He pats down the front of his trousers and takes a seat, and Mycroft passes him a hefty envelope which he wastes no time tearing into.

Blood draining from his face, John's gut instantly clenches in revulsion at what awaits him, the hairs on his skin standing to attention.

He skims through hundreds of images, shuffling through a bulky stack - Moriarty zipping Sherlock up into a puffy duffel coat, Moriarty taking Sherlock's hand, Moriarty smiling, Sherlock tugging on Moriarty's pants leg, the look on his face one of insatiable cravings, cravings for intimacy, love, affection, ask and you shall receive conviction, a kiss on a cheek here, a hair ruffle there, Sherlock nestled on Moriarty's lap as he helps him colour, more smiles - always smiling.

"Oh God..." John feels like he's going to be sick. He swallows hard, wrestling with his nauseous gag reflex.

Ripping his gaze away from the damning evidence of his complete and utter failure, he dumps the imposing mound on the coffee table where they soon topple, reflecting back at him acutely. There is no escape. Not anymore. If there ever was.

Posture annoyingly perfect, legs elegantly crossed, Mycroft is unmoved by his reaction and oh so subtly hints, "Well, if someone hadn't let him get away…"

"For the last time, I didn't _let_ him," he barks. "Jesus. You make it sound like I _wanted_ this. He had a gun shoved in his face and he laughed, okay? Generally, I find it's a wise idea to shoot people like that."

His expression doesn't change. "Then why didn't you?"

"Because I shoved a gun in his face and _he laughed_. Who in Christ's name trusts someone like that? _Would you_?" John asks pointedly, gritting his jaw. The other man's half-lidded stare dulls. "Yeah, didn't think so. He had no intention of going quietly, Mycroft. I couldn't count on him not to throw a stupid tantrum and flatten the entire building out of spite. Not with Sherlock _right there_. I couldn't take that risk."

"My brother always did admire your more practical nature. What you lack in insight, you quite nearly make up for in reason. A vital trait, in my experience."

"Well, _your brother_ is out God knows where playing happy families and cuddling up to a bloody psychopath!"

"Yes." He purses his lips, taps one finger on his jawline. "It is rather peculiar, isn't it?"

John's fists clench by his sides and for once, _just once_ , he'd love nothing more than to wipe that exasperatingly smug look off his stupid face. Everything about him right now - everything about _this_ \- is grating on his already frayed nerves.

_"You think?"_

"This isn't about winning or losing anymore, Dr. Watson," Mycroft states primly. "This is a matter of the heart. Complicated state of affairs, that. I tend not to probe too deeply. You rarely like what you find."

Breathing steadily through his nose in an extreme effort to calm down, the army doctor schools his features into something a tad less openly hostile. "But look at him," John continues, stabbing a finger at the picture of Moriarty standing in a t-shirt and jeans pushing Sherlock on a set of swings. It's so chillingly normal. If he bumped into the pair in a park, he doubts if he'd even bat an eye. And that eats at him, that their bond could be that indisputable. "It's, like-like-" he cuts off, roughly exhaling. "Bloody hell, I don't know. Like he's been playing for so long, he's forgotten that it's a goddamn game."

Mycroft rises gracefully to his feet and straightens his tie, glimpsing at the pile of photos with stiff upper lip, forehead pinched in thought.

"Perhaps...perhaps he was never actually playing."

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_* Flashback *_

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He's curled up on sofa again, clad in his dressing gown and little else. Been like this for hours.

It's hardly surprising.

John might go so far as to say he's huffing, but who knows? Maybe he's simply thinking, maybe he's scheming. Who the hell can tell?

"Stop it." Sherlock's rough voice breaks into his thoughts and he pauses, slowly lowering his piping hot mug of tea and half-folding his newspaper.

"Stop what?" the soldier enquires tolerantly, feeling a serious case of the eye-rolls coming on.

"Slurping. It's distracting."

Bristling at the accusation, John objects, "I am _not_ slurping."

Still facing the wall, Sherlock waves a flippant hand and grumbles, "Slurping, swallowing - what's the difference? Just cut it out."

"I'd rather not. Something is obviously bothering you and it's not me or my tea-drinking, so if you're going to moan about every little thing I do, I'd prefer not to encourage it by pandering to you or your childish mood swings."

They settle back into uneasy silence. A clock ticks from the kitchen, the chair creaks as he shifts. The atmosphere only thickens.

"It's Moriarty," Sherlock volunteers after several minutes, sounding pissed, really, if he's honest.

"Moriarty?" John says, startled. "This again?"

"Yes, this again," he responds impatiently. "Christ. You know as well as I do that he's baiting me. Why not wait? Why not bide his time? No, he knew I couldn't resist the temptation. Moriarty doesn't just hop aboard a commercial flight and sit sipping lattes and making idle chitchat about the weather with the working class riffraff. It's beneath him. It's off script. It's-it's a huge, audacious signboard announcing _Here I Am. Come And Get Me._ By God, it's infuriating!"

"Alright, okay," John mutters. He roughly smears a hand across his mouth and blusters a sigh. "I know I've said this before, but for your benefit, I feel the need to repeat myself. Here's a crazy idea: what if he's fed up with all of this to and froing and just wants to get this over with, once and for all? What if this - all of this - is just a trick to lure you out and kill you?"

"If it is, it's working," Sherlock murmurs, fingers steepled meditatively under his chin with the slow-curving promise of a smile.

"Are you listening to yourself?" John questions, voice sharpened by disbelief.

The other man's frown deepens - almost unperceptively. But where once the quiet furrowing of his brows had been unreadable, John is no longer fooled by the neutrality of his friend's expression. Around his eyes, there is the tiniest tightening and his lips are risen ever so slightly - ever so ominously.

"It's too easy, John. I don't like it."

And he's right. Of course, he's right. It's too easy, much too simple. A warning, then. One Sherlock is all too willing to ignore.

Danger beckons. It always does.

"Then don't do it," John refutes. "Don't do whatever it is that you are clearly plotting. Stay in, have a cuppa. Be a normal person. I hear it's good for your health. Staying alive generally is."

"And miss the spectacle?" he asks incredulously, giving a superior snort and flicking him a measuring glance. Not quite a sneer, but close. "After he's gone to so much trouble?"

"But you just said-"

"Don't you see?" Sherlock demands, tilting his head at a cutting angle and raising heavy, inscrutable eyes to rest on John's befuddled ones. The condescension is unbearably palpable. He morphs his lips into that familiar devious smirk. The one that John ultimately succumbs to, _every damn time_. "It's always trouble if it's simple."

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_Now:_

On a Saturday, Moriarty rouses by himself, clearing the sleep from his eyes and yawning groggily - which would have been normal, he expects, had he not become accustomed to a certain faithful human alarm clock leaping onto his chest and flicking him in the face bright and early every single morning at dawn.

It's rare nowadays that he has the bed to himself and he's learned to treasure every precious moment he gets without a restless limpet attached to his side, one that practically radiates heat and neediness and cuteness.

He suspects the only reason he managed to protect his solitude the night previous was because Sherlock fell asleep while in the tub, dripping hair fused to his forehead, sucking a wrinkly thumb and clutching a rubber duckie. All Moriarty had to do was pat him down, delicately towel dry his hair, slide a crinkly nappy over his chunky legs and button him up in a soft, footed sleeper. The worst thing about that was that he didn't like having to relinquish his damp digit and kept switching thumbs while Moriarty attempted to steer his arms into the sleeves.

After that, he simply carried the slumbering toddler to his own bedroom and tucked him in. The time which he usually would have spent reading the child a soothing bedtime story and doing all the exasperating voices was instead used to frame two innocent men for the brutal murders and kidnappings of five young women (the millions of dollars pumped into the separate ransoms was an unexpected bonus. He milked those stupid relatives for all they were worth) and arranged a little human trafficking in South Asia - nothing too remarkable.

All in a day's work. Lovely and productive all round.

Languidly stretching with a sluggish smirk, he glances towards his nightstand and pauses when he sees the numbers 8:30 glaring back at him, a terrible thought crossing his mind.

He could have merely decided to lie in…

But Sherlock _never_ lies in. Not unless he's bundled up within the refuge of his Daddy's arms and is too comfortable and cosy and contented to move. He _always_ wakes up early and should he discover he's been cast off alone, he always, always, always shuffles into Moriarty's room - that's the unspoken law of the universe. That's just how it is.

That's-it's-

Shit.

Suddenly petrified, Moriarty bolts upright and springs out of bed, lunging towards his glossy wall of monitors and scanning for one specific screen. He instantly relaxes at the sight of his baby boy peacefully sleeping with his plush doggie, Wilbur, propped under his arm and his dummy stuffed in his mouth.

After that last scare, he'd installed additional, inconspicuous, top-notch cameras all over his numerous properties and he's had no reason to regret it since.

Frankly, they are one of the only things preventing a panic-induced heart attack most nights as he rolls over to land on empty space.

Sometimes…he forgets.

Sometimes, his imaginations goes into overdrive and he forgets Sherlock is sleeping down the hall, he forgets the brilliance of his advanced security system, he forgets that his son was ever returned to him.

He imagines he never had him to begin with - the grief tastes like defeat.

It's times like these Moriarty wonders if his intellect has been corrupted with sentiment, if he'd been compromised in an instant ( _the_ instant, the split second it took for him to sense his momentous loss, the moment he shed his first tear in years), if his callous disposition has been contaminated with concern - doesn't his smile simply reek of affection?

There have seriously been times when if he is on his own and struggling to switch off - too much rattling about in his riotous mind. Death and embezzlement and splintered skulls and weary forgery and beautiful mutilation and _smash, smash, smashing._ Reap the rewards of the captivating devastation. Too much, all at once, never-ending - Jim curls up with his head pillowed on his arm and the baby monitor tucked under his ear and listens to the steady, serene snores on the other end, calmed by the somnolent ramblings of his toddler talking in his sleep. Typically with the occasional, _'daddy. my daddy,'_ thrown in there somewhere.

He's besotted. Obsessed. Hideously co-dependant.

The unhealthiest of relationships.

Yet, somehow, for some reason, he can't bring himself to regret not pulling that trigger. But the fact remains.

He should have.

Tearing his gaze away from the undisturbed child, Moriarty drags his fingers through his scruffy hair and snatches his black dressing gown from where it's draped over the bed frame, quickly slipping it on and fastening it around his waist. He would get dressed or at least run a comb through his hair, but…eh. Effort.

He'll gel his hair and don a suave suit later. For now, he's got a cranky toddler to wake up.

Moriarty pads into the dim bedroom barefoot and slowly pulls the blinds half-way, careful not to flood the room with light and overwhelm the youngster.

"Wakey wakey, Munchkin," Jim murmurs softly, perching on the edge of the bed and gently rubbing his back. "Rise and shine. Time to get up." Swatting at his hand and wriggling down deeper into his makeshift cocoon, Sherlock grumbles inarticulately. "What's that? Daddy can't understand you, baby. Speak up."

"No waaaannna, Dadddyyyy," Sherlock moans, popping up abruptly with a fierce scowl. Sweeping the covers over his head, he flops down once more and pushes his face into the pillow. "'Leepy."

Moriarty rolls his eyes at the dramatics. "I know you're tired-"

"Then why 'oo wake me up?" he cuts in grouchily.

"Because it's morning and my little scallywag needs some yummy brekkie in his tummy to keep the hungry monster in there nice and happy and full," he explains patiently, poking the youngster's abdomen and extracting a drowsy giggle.

"That stupid," Sherlock claims, but his voice is unsure as he pokes out from under the blankets with curiosity brightening his eyes. "There no monstew."

"There is too," the consulting criminal insists. "Who do you think does all that funny growling, huh? Munchkins don't growl, silly."

"They do too!"

"That right?" he chuckles. "Well, what do Munchkins say, then?"

He crushes his brows between his fingers and says, "They fwown like 'dis and they say _grrrrrr_."

"Nuh-uh." He shakes his head forcefully. "I know one who always says, ' _No waaaannna, Dadddyyyy! Leepy,"_ Jim parrots with a broad grin, laughing at Sherlock's consequential dark glower. He drops a kiss on his messy bed hair, causing the toddler to thaw somewhat. "Now, how about we cut back the whinging, hmm?" He chucks him under the chin. "Up and at 'em, champ."

"But me 'till 'leepy," Sherlock mumbles forlornly, knuckling his eyes adorably.

He does _not_ take pity on him. Nope. No way. "Tell you what," Moriarty proposes. "Daddy will let you dress yourself today and if you're ready to rock and roll in under ten minutes, Daddy will whip up a super special breakfast for his little darling. How's that?"

Chewing his inner cheek, Sherlock deliberates this, feeling the need to double-check, "No o-meal?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die. No yucky oatmeal."

He grins triumphantly. "Deal."

"Why do I suddenly feel like I've been bamboozled?" Moriarty comments in amusement, eyes narrowing into slits. Sherlock only continues to stare back at him and smile.

Huffing out a disbelieving laugh, he smirks and then gets up to set out a pair of cuffed jeans with an elastic waistband (for easy access), a plain navy t-shirt with a space rocket embroidered on the front, pale blue socks with smiley whales and his favourite light-up trainers. "There. So that's ten minutes on the clock, got it?" He nods. "Great." Moriarty claps his hands briskly. "Alright, then. Ready…Steady….GO."

Sherlock hops out of bed and scrambles to get dressed.

Conned or not, it's pretty darn adorable.

With the toddler occupied, the consulting criminal heads to the kitchen and ignoring the curious looks of his staff, begins pulling ingredients from the cupboards. He tips flour into a large mixing bowl and sprinkles a dash of cinnamon. After that, he cracks an egg and adds a splash of milk, before whisking. He then places this on a non-stick frying pan and once relatively heated, pours in the gooey batter which he swirls into a thin layer to cook, all the while keeping a close eye on the time.

"Sir?" One of his female workers approaches him warily. "I thought you might like to know, there's been another breech of security. The third this week-"

"Sebastian's taking care of it," Jim butts in dismissively, yanking the fridge open and grabbing a half-eaten packet of raspberries and a bunch of bananas, detaching the least green one and giving it a cautious sniff.

She blinks in surprise, brows twitching in confusion. "But-but, sir… Are you sure he's fit for another assignment so soon? Isn't he still recovering from his surge-"

"Sebastian. Is. On. It," he enunciates slowly, producing a piercing glare out of what seems like thin air, ridged with rickety viciousness. The effect is intensified by the thin knife he then plucks from a drawer, despite closing it with his hip.

"Yes, yes, of course," the woman replies hastily, backing away. "Let me just..-I'll go ch-check everything's r-running smoothly-"

He doesn't spare her a glance. "You do that."

Squeezing past the quickly retreating employee with one minute to spare, his Munchkin races into the room, grinning elatedly at the wafting aroma of crisp pancakes.

Pausing in his movements to divide the fresh fruit, Moriarty turns and sets down the knife in order to snag the back of the toddler's - inside out - t-shirt. (And just how exactly did he manage that? It certainly wasn't inside out when Moriarty fished it out of his wardrobe). "Hold your horses, Munchkin," the man directs. "Did you put your shoes on the wrong feet again?"

"Silly Daddy," the youngster chortles, an impish aura creeping into his too-innocent eyes. "Me know they'we my feet."

"Oh, you do, do you?" Jim laughs. "Okay, smarty-pants. Next time, let's try putting them on with the straps pointing outwards, hmm?" he suggests, kneeling down and swapping the trainers around. "Saves me the hassle of making any more switcheroos."

"Donna det it next time, Daddy," Sherlock vows as he gazes up at him, jaw set in determination.

"I know you'll try, sweet pea," Moriarty soothes, ruffling his hair.

He stands and transfers the warm pancakes onto a orange and yellow plate decorated with a playful lion, drizzling them with honey, before topping it off with sliced banana and a handful of raspberries and placing it in front of the eager child, who struggles to scale the obviously too-high chair - as he does every day. Jim rolls his eyes and scoops him up, plonking the tot down, before moving to rinse out a sippy cup and refill it with orange squash.

Sherlock swings his legs gleefully while chomping down the tasty treat and gurgling as he bursts raspberries between his teeth, watery juices trickling down his chin and darkening his lips, staining them a cheerful cherry. "Daddy, did 'oo know we can't bweathe and 'wallow at same time, and tears 'tick to 'oo face if 'oo cwy in space, and we tell diff'ence of least trillion 'mells-" he prattles around a mouthful, spraying bits of food, cheeks endearingly fat and bulging, and pausing only to guzzle juice and wash it down.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," the father chides automatically as he fills a mug of coffee, then answers, "And, as a matter of fact, no, I didn't know that. Aren't you a clever boy." He blows on the top before taking a generous swig. "Has someone been watching the grown-up science channel again?"

With a jerky nod, Sherlock licks his fingers and smacks his lips.

"Is that scrummy?" Jim asks, watching his movements with a smile. Though good Lord, if there isn't a huge part of resisting the compulsion to grab a cloth and clean his son's sticky face. Fuck, it's ingrained.

Sherlock hums happily in agreement.

"And I was thinking that if you're nice and quiet, you can work alongside Daddy today!" he exclaims excitedly, gasping. "But only if you're really, really good."

He beams, bouncing on the seat. "Help, Daddy! Me helper!"

"You're the bestest helper," he agrees. "You can sit up at Daddy's desk and help with all sorts of wonderful crimes. Won't that be nice?"

It fucking better be.

Not like that last catastrophe. A few weeks ago, he'd brought Sherlock's playpen into his study in the hopes of watching the toddler whilst he conversed with his most demanding clients and the bored child had spent the entire time hanging over the side of the bars (having rattled them for half an hour to no avail) and clutching at air, all the while hollering in the most whiny, high-pitched tone for his sincerely ticked off, frazzled Daddy.

So rather than endure _that_ again, Jim will plop the youngster comfortably on his lap and provide a few sheets of blank paper for his Munchkin to scribble on - all under the guise of 'assisting' Moriarty with some very tough work, of course. Teaching him the ways.

He'll glance down at the jumbled up squiggles and he'll heap on the praise in a cloying, babyish pitch, "Good thinking, Munchkin. Well done! This is fabulous. You're such a good helper! Daddy doesn't what he'd do without you!" He will relish Sherlock's dazzling smile - so charming and gullible and ridiculously, terrifically proud - and suddenly, without his permission, he'll be smiling too.

He'll do what any father would do.

Because the reality is, Moriarty has grown to love this weird, hyper, destructive, and often howling, grubby creature with the cute-as-can-be bloody everything. He fell in love with his big, blue eyes and his cheeky grin and his teeny tiny fingers. He did. He really, really did.

He dug his own grave, didn't he?

In the end…it was easy.

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_Thanks for reading._

_Hope you liked the random flashback of adult Sherlock. That one snuck up on me too. The entire chapter did, to be honest. This was intended to be a prompt fill but alas, it just wasn't meant to be - yet, anyway. I will get around to completing those. Promise._


	9. Master and Subject

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**Master and Subject**

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**A/N:** I know this one is a little early (okay, a lot early) but my muse was being very demanding and I couldn't wait to share this with you guys. Prompt fill: _Sherlock adopts a dog. Of course, Jim doesn't approve at first, until Sherlock promises that if he has a dog, he will 'let daddy do work,' and Moriarty agrees, but then at some point, Sherlock is paying more attention to the dog than his Daddy and Jim says, 'sooner or later, I will shoot that bloody beast.' But he didn't mean for Sherlock to hear it, but he does and he answers that he is teaching him to obey so he can be a boss like his Daddy._

This is for xxXKmiXxx ~ thank you for the amazing prompt. I hope I got it right.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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He doesn't know what in the world planted the notion in his head, but once wedged there, Sherlock won't shut up about it.

It is driving him insane.

"I dunno, sweat pea…" Moriarty hedges when Sherlock crawls up onto his lap and pleads for a pet chum for what feels like the thousandth time that week. "A dog is a pretty big responsibility…" Pfft. Like he gives a crap about responsibility. Translation? Moriarty abhors animals. More specifically, pets. Jim had a hamster once when he was little. It was called Bandit. Cute little thing. Friendly, too.

He flushed it down the toilet alive.

"Peas, Daddy?" he perseveres. "If me had doggy, me could let 'oo do work! 'Oo love work!"

Crap. That does sound quite tempting. Appealing to the workaholic in him, is he? Crafty little bugger.

And since when did he master these skills of persuasion and why didn't Moriarty know about it? Usually, he hinges his entire argument on Moriarty falling under the spell of his overwhelming cuteness. If all else fails, cross your fingers and pray the puppy-dog eyes do the trick.

"Peas?" Sherlock begs, tugging on his sleeve. "Me nevew, ever ask fow anything ever gain, Daddy. Pwomise." And Lord save him, there it is. Right on cue.

The Doe-eyed Backbone Exterminator. In all it's wretched glory.

Moriarty scrubs his forehead and kneads his brow, feeling a headache blossoming under the surface at the likelihood of withstanding _that face_ unremittingly in the foreseeable future. Oh, who does he think he's kidding? Sherlock's got this in the bag.

He always caves eventually.

And really, would it be so bad? It would mean Sherlock wouldn't rely so heavily on him for companionship twenty-four seven, at any rate. Moriarty would get a hell of a lot more done, that's for sure. This has gotta be mutually beneficial for everyone involved.

...Right?

Dear God, please let him be right.

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He finds a man in North London selling pedigree bernese mountain puppies (allegedly, they are a very loyal, intelligent and affectionate breed and for him, that's as good as it gets. He has minimal expectations) and picks out the least repulsive one in a litter of six. The decision is a tough one and it is a torture trying to narrow them down - they each make him want to hurl in their own, unique way.

Lip curled in distaste, Moriarty scoops out the least desperate one (the only mutt not yapping a constant stream of Pick Me! Pick me!) and dangles it at arm's reach, casting an evaluative eye over the hopeful candidate. It doesn't pee on him, so that's a bonus. It looks fairly harmless. Jim sets it back down on the bed of straw where it stands on wobbly legs, forks out a wad of cash for the hovering seller, then hoists it up by the scruff of its neck, and thinks _, this'll do._

Moriarty stows the teddy-bear-ish puppy in a box with old newspapers and a fleece blanket decorated in bone-like shapes and removes a stylish, sapphire collar from his pocket to strap on. It cowers at his touch, scooting back into the farthest corner and shivering miserably.

He sighs.

Superb. So it's a sissy as well as a doofus.

For a brief moment, Jim wishes he had had the foresight to gas the mutt for the drive home, so he wouldn't have to listen to it jostling about and yowling pitifully, nails scraping against cardboard as the box jiggles in the backseat.

Oh, well. Hindsight's 20/20.

At least he's not the only one not enjoying the other's company.

Before he'd left, Sherlock had already had quite an inkling as to where he was going (it is tremendously difficult to surprise the mini genius, in any case), so when Jim returns carrying a suspicious, large box, the little boy instantly jumps up and down and chants breathlessly, " _Fankoofankoofankoo!"_ He rushes forward and barrels into his legs, hugging firmly.

"You're welcome, Munchkin," Moriarty replies, grinning as he sets down the heavy parcel and brushes his lips over the kid's crown. "It was my pleasure."

Kind of.

Gorgeous, chocolate brown eyes slowly peek out over the top and Sherlock gasps in delight.

He stoops down and smiles kindly at the frightened creature. "Hello, puppy. It otay," he coaxes. "You safe. Me won't huwt 'oo."

Little by little, inch by inch, he offers a tiny hand for the puppy to investigate, careful not to scare him off. Straight away, Sherlock falls victim to the fuzz ball's charms, who pushes a wet nose against his palm, sniffing loudly, before hesitantly crawling out from under blanket and shaking it off.

His Munchkin charily reaches out and begins scratching under his floppy ears and Moriarty thinks that it's then that they strike up their undying friendship, twin smiles slowly emerging - one dimpled, the other not even remotely human; both equally as bright and parading the same warmth and affection.

Before long, the puppy scrambles to escape the box, yearning to greet his new buddy. He paws uselessly at the tall sides and whines at his upsetting inability to get out.

Knowing his own strength - or lack thereof - Sherlock turns pleading, Bambi eyes on Moriarty, who sighs but cups the pup's rump under his hand and lifts him out. The fur is critically soft under his fingers.

The youngster beams, quickly enveloping the pup in a hug, sinking fingers into his fluffy coat. With a playful bop on the snout, he announces, "Me name 'oo Fingews,"

Wait, what?

The puppy merely nudges the child's arm in a silent order to resume petting, completely oblivious to the proceedings. Blanching the tinest bit, Jim's brows slope into a mystified frown as he echoes doubtfully, "F-fingers?" He coughs. "Are you…are you sure?"

"Uh-huh!" he enthuses, nodding decisively. "He look like a Fingews to me."

"You are one-hundred percent, positively sure? There's no chance you'll… gee, I don't know, change your mind later?" _Would you relent if I invented a tiny fib in the heat of the moment and told you it's really a girl?_

"Daddy," Sherlock levels him with a dry look, voice coloured with exasperation. "He name Fingews."

"Uh," Moriarty scratches the back of his neck. "Well, um, okie dokie. Fingers, it is."

He has to be the first person in history to name a dog _Fingers_. But Moriarty wouldn't have it any other way. It's bloody hilarious, is what it is.

God, the look on the bloke's face when he instructs him on what to engrave on the nametag is priceless. Absolutely priceless.

Fingers. Christ.

Only his son. Only Sherlock.

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He hates it.

God, you wouldn't believe how much he hates it.

He wants nothing more than to toss it in the nearest meat grinder and watch it turn to pureed, gory mush with toothpicks for bones. Or better yet, split the ghastly vermin right down the middle, bleed it dry, and disembowel the irksome thing, carving out swollen, slippery masses of stomach, intestines, spleen, liver, hands submerged in thick, black, bloody guts - naturally, he'd take precautions. He'd wear gloves.

Moriarty doesn't like getting his hands dirty.

Jim despises the sight of the mutt settling its pea-brained head on his baby's feet where it seems to have grown fond of napping or diving after the squishy ball Sherlock is forced to pitch each mealtime so he can eat his dinner in peace (although Moriarty eventually purchases a baby gate to deny the sucker entry of the kitchen unless it's his turn to be fed).

It's fat and lazy and all it ever does is follow Sherlock's every move like some pathetic groupie.

It's a crap guard dog that never barks or appears in any way perturbed by strangers. Instead, the damn thing will only gaze up at whomever it is with heartbreaking, woeful eyes and agitatedly wait to get petted, tail thumping on the floor and paws pushing impatiently against the tiles.

Worse, it's yet to be housebroken. The smelly little bastard desecrates on his good carpet _time after time_ and fucking pisses on everything. He can't even find happiness in bellowing at it, because the damn thing has a nervous bladder which has a penchant for promptly emptying at even the most infinitesimal changes in the pitch of Moriarty's voice - exclusively.

It's greedy as hell, too, incessantly begging for extra treats and sniffing around his depleted food bowl in the highly improbable scenario that he overlooked a microscopic scrap of food.

Not to mention how it insists on jumping all over him whenever Moriarty has anywhere remotely important to be, branding him with hairs - resilient little fuckers which are a bloody nightmare to remove - or caking his trousers with muddy paw prints. The same mud he trekked all over the house after bulldozing his way past Moriarty's staff to freedom, ambushing unsuspecting workers whenever they happened to open the door - any door - and galloping across the green. He typically tosses a taunting glance behind him, too. As if to say, _Na na na na, try and catch me! I dare you._

Arghhhh!

He hates it so, so much.

It fails at everything! It can't even _walk_ properly. _That's_ how pathetic it is. It only seems capable of waddling.

And as endearing as it may seldom be to watch the boisterous duo play tug of war with a worn dish rag or as much as Jim might melt at seeing Sherlock unfurl his blankie to share with the pup after he curls up beside him while he's watching cartoons, it's still a rotten, evil, deceptively innocent, little demon-pup and he refuses to be persuaded otherwise.

Even when Jim _does_ make an effort to bury the hatchet, the nasty inbreed has the audacity to _nip his fingers_ when he's trying to pat its head. Teething troubles or not, he's not a bloody chew toy and under no circumstances does he wish to play.

Ever.

On the bright side…at least the mongrel has stopped growling at his approach.

Nevertheless, there have been times when Moriarty has been one gnawed shoe or ripped up garment away from feigning allergy, conjuring up a succession of violent sneezes or a persistent, leaky nostril and declaring the little shit has to go. Truth be told, on one particularly bad day, he very nearly squirted a sachet of poison into his water bowl. He would have acted sad and everything. Maybe manufactured a tear.

Gasp an appalled, 'Oh, dear! It looks like Fingers somehow, spontaneously ingested some hydrofluoric acid which seems to have withered away his internal organs, soaked through tissue, seeped into his bones, and burned his insides to a crisp. Goodness no!"

But then he took one look at the infinite joy on his darling son's face as the puppy retrieved Wilbur at his command and he just _couldn't_. He can't fucking deny him anything.

His bedroom is where he draws the line, though.

Jim didn't buy a lavish dog bed for nothing. Regardless of how loud the mutt howls, he is not, repeat not, sleeping anywhere him. It's either the dog bed in the kitchen or a hard, plastic kennel out in the garden - a no-brainer, really. Fingers should consider himself lucky.

But he doesn't. Of course, he doesn't. He's an incredibly dense, pampered pooch. What else can Moriarty expect?

Then one afternoon he is nursing a tumbler of fine scotch in the living room after a particularly stressful day's work when Sherlock comes to find him, the loyal minion trotting in after his heels.

He sprints over to Moriarty and swipes at the man's trousers, gazing up at him innocently.

"Look, Daddy! He like 'oo!" Sherlock declares, but Moriarty is inclined to disagree. Especially as the mutt secures the hem of his pants between his teeth and begins tugging. He shakes his head back and forth and rumbles in frustration when his dull incisors fail to produce the pleasurable sound of fabric ripping.

"Hey!" Moriarty snaps, flicking it on the nose despite every single instinct screaming at him to thrust out his leg and fling the fur ball across the room. "Ugh. Get off! Filthy little fleabag!"

The puppy stumbles back and cocks its head in confusion. It's so stupid, it doesn't even know when it's being insulted!

"Daddy! Top!" Sherlock interjects, shocked. He dives forward and flings his arms around it protectively. "He not a feabag!"

Examining his trousers for any trace of damage and tightening his jaw as he feels the tiny puncture marks, Moriarty mutters, "If you say so."

Sherlock scowls and scratches under the little devil's chin in what is presumably an apology on Jim's behalf. Fingers preens at the attention and wags his tail in total bliss, lips stretching into a dopey grin.

But the stimulation obviously becomes too much for his harried system to handle and he wriggles his bottom in the air, quivering in crazy anticipation, before pouncing on the toddler who shrieks and squirms as the pup cranes his neck to lap fervently at his face. To Moriarty's momentary heart failure, Sherlock loses his balance and falls back unceremoniously to the floor. This grants the puppy the rare opportunity to call dibs on his nose and cover more area than ever before.

Tail beating hard against Sherlock's thigh, he squeezes even closer to dart a slobbery tongue over the boy's ear, exploring the deliciously awesome-smelling neck of its human. Then abruptly he bounds away, the clumsy canine tripping over itself in overexcitement, before predictably skidding forward and hitting its muzzle against the floor.

Moriarty smirks.

That hard thwack was rather satisfying.

Panting hard, the puppy rolls over, and, tongue tumbling from his mouth, awaits a gratifying belly rub with a demanding yip. Sherlock promptly gives in, massaging his pink, exposed tummy as the rowdy holy terror trembles under the boy's touch.

Like putty in his hands.

After a few minutes, Sherlock grows bored of this and gets up to make himself comfortable on the couch beside his Daddy, snuggling up to Moriarty and seizing his hand to play with his father's fingers, and the puppy quickly chases after him. He hops up beside him and lays its head on his comically large paws and then it just... stares at him.

In something like defiance.

Almost as if it is marking its territory. Protecting what is his.

Which just ticks the consulting criminal off. In fact, the whole thing rubs him the wrong way, which is ludicrous, because why would Moriarty be jealous of a _dog_? He isn't.

Fingers continues to stare at him in this intense, freaky way. _Mine_ , he appears to say - half-lidded eyes fixed on Jim's. Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine. The picture of smugness as he shimmies up to his son.

The message is clear.

Ha ha. Mine.

Moriarty narrows his eyes and has to work to taper down the impulse to strangle the cocky bugger.

Oh, _hell_ no.

Despite whatever inflated delusions he may have, this little slimeball has not replaced him. He is the pack leader here. He is the dominant one. Not that spoiled rat. And okay, maybe Moriarty is guilty of being a tinie, tiny bit possessive of his Munchkin, but for crying out loud, Sherlock. Is. _His._ Not some bull-headed, temperamental pup's. His. Always and forever.

He won't stand for this.

"That's it," he grumbles under his breath, nostrils flaring. "Sooner or later, I am gonna shoot that bloody beast."

Head snapping round in horror, Sherlock's jaw goes lax and he exclaims, "Daddy, no! Him my fwiend! 'Oo can't 'oot him!"

He freezes.

..Oops.

"I'll get you other friends, Sherlock," Moriarty promises, not quite backtracking. "Better friends."

"But-but," the boy flounders, causing flickers of doubt to awaken in Jim's chest. His son's grief-stricken expression is shattering. It almost makes Jim want to retract his statement.

Almost.

Sherlock drops his gaze to the happily panting puppy and nibbles his thumb as he mumbles dejectedly, "But me teaching him to 'bey, D-daddy." His breath hitches. "Wanna be-be boss like-like 'oo."

And dammit if that doesn't make him feel like the world's biggest asshole. For once in his life, he's not proud to hold that title.

Sucking in a tentative breath, Moriarty draws the upset child close and caresses his hair in comfort. "Shh, it's alright, baby. Daddy didn't mean it. He's just had a little too much scotch. Nothing's going to happen to Fingers."

"Me..me keep him?" Sherlock asks, scarcely daring to hope.

"Yeah," he says softly, heart constricting painfully, "You can keep him."

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_Thanks for reading and thank-you for all of your wonderful reviews. I appreciate every single one of them._

_As a vegetarian, dog-lover and owner of two bizarrely puppy-like bunnies, I must apologise for Moriarty's vile fantasies regarding poor Finger's demise. His headspace can be a very disturbing place to visit. Yet... on the other hand, this was strangely enjoyable to write, so…yeah. What does that say about me?_


	10. A Devil Sedated

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**A Devil Sedated**

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**A/N:** So my week sucked. I meant to get this written sooner, but I didn't have the time or energy and in the end up, I simply wrote something to cheer myself up. I hope you guys don't mind. It might be terrible in parts because some it was written while I was pretty sleep-deprived. Like, actually.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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_All the world's a stage and all the men and women are merely players - William Shakespeare, As You Like It._

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For a long time, it seemed like a tragedy even as he composed a drama.

He rehearsed his lines, shielded himself in a shiny glaze of make-up, pasted on a blinding smile and he waited for his laugh track.

He was acting a part, playing a play of plays. The show must go on - and by God, he did. Pity, then. That nobody else seemed to get the joke.

Then along came Sherlock.

Enthused, Jim designed cardboard, cut-out scenes, cherry-picked pots of scarlet paint, mouthed the words of an impromptu script, he reserved the best seat.

Paid extra and everything.

He indulged in the flawless execution of his pet detective's rousing performance, who _danced, danced, danced_ like a puppet on strings. It was magnificent.

He bowed. They clapped.

Sherlock basked in the standing ovation, but it was never long before their roses were dying.

And it would start all over again.

Then suddenly, one day, the credits rolled, the curtains closed, yet Moriarty was adamant that if life was a comedy, he would have the last laugh.

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_Now:_

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It isn't until he's woken up at five in the morning that Moriarty realises that Sherlock is coming down with something.

Shrill, distraught cries pulsating from the baby monitor yank him from a sound sleep and he staggers out of bed in nothing but his boxer briefs towards his son's room, comatose and with only one goal in mind: to get back to sleep.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared the young father for what awaits him.

"D-d-d-daddy! D-daddy!" Sherlock blubbers when he gets there, thrusting his arms upwards. He's so upset that he's hyperventilating and his reddened cheeks are stained with tears. Worried, Jim quickly sweeps him into a protective embrace and, all of a sudden, there are nails scratching at his exposed flesh and wetness on his chest as the kid practically flings himself at him in a frenzied need for comfort.

The smouldering heat which radiates from his pale, sweaty flesh scares the honest-to-God shit out of Moriarty.

Immediately, he heads towards the kitchen, bypassing Finger's dogbed, who was already perked up and sitting ram-rod straight, ears flicking as he listened in concern to the toddler's howling, so it's no surprise that he wastes no time leaping up and scrambling after him.

"It's okay, baby," Jim murmurs, bouncing him gently and bracing the back of his head. "Daddy's here. Daddy's gonna make it all better." He kisses his forehead as if in a promise.

Hauling open a drawer, he fumbles for the electronic thermometer which he awkwardly turns on with one thumb and tries to pop it into Sherlock's ear. But he isn't having any of it and begins _screeching_ as he shirks away from Jim's hand.

"Settle down, sweet pea. It's nothing scary. Daddy just needs to take your temperature."

Yeah…no. He definitely doesn't want that. No way. Not on Sherlock's watch.

After another ten minutes of struggle, Moriarty finally inserts the instrument long enough for it to beep and display an accurate reading.

102 F.

Not ideal. But not _what-do-I-do-what-do-I-do_ immobilizing terror either.

Jim manages to spoon-feed the squirming tot a dose of kid's medicine. It's strawberry flavoured and smells pleasant enough, but that doesn't stop Sherlock from screwing up his face and sobbing harder at the unfairness of it all.

Desperate to console the toddler and reduce his ear-deafening cries which must be murder on his headache, Moriarty begins pacing the distance between his bedroom and his study and nearly trips over Fingers on more than one occasion as he futilely tries to keep up with him.

He rocks and bounces and shushes and sings and murmurs the gentlest words of comfort, but it doesn't seem to have any effect in the least. An hour in and his voice is hoarse and his legs are so stiff and tired that he's all but dragging them.

Moriarty is at his wit's end.

He's _tired_ , dammit. And fuck, if he knows what to do.

"Shh…Shh…C'mon, snuggle bug. No more tears." He's tempted to start crying himself.

Instead, he rummages around until he finds one of Sherlock's suckers and hovers it in front of the child's mouth. Instinctively, to Jim's everlasting relief, he latches on, wrapping his lips around the dummy and sucking furiously. Moriarty continues his soothing motions and coos loving gibberish and after a while, his cries die down and become more croaky and whiny until they fade away completely.

Still tense and fearful of triggering another such episode, Moriarty climbs back into bed, cautiously covering the pair in Sherlock's blankie - nothing too heavy. He wouldn't risk aggravating his already too-high temperature.

His Munchkin is still fully conscious and appears no closer to sleep than he was when he was screaming the house down, so Jim simply lies there, rubbing his back as he hiccups, and at last gives up hope of ever sleeping again for however long Sherlock is feeling under the weather.

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He's a zombie. An actual, legit zombie.

His every waking moment is spent tending to his son and it's a frickin' whirlwind. He gives him freeze pops to soothe his rough throat whenever he's feeling up to it, and if not, Moriarty gives him dry crackers or hard boiled sweets to suck on. His Daddy instincts gnaw at him, fretting that he hasn't had a full meal in days, but it's whatever his queasy tummy can handle and the man should consider himself fortunate for getting him to take anything at all.

He makes sure that he drinks plenty of fluids and refills his sippy cup with warmed orange juice hourly, and he's constantly fixing his blankie over the toddler that he kicks off amid fitful splashes of hot and cold while dozing.

It's unbelievably gruelling.

Moriarty is reduced to plugging in that God-awful Lilo&Stitch DVD that Sherlock is inexplicably obsessed with and has literally seen about fifty times for the sole purpose of getting a little respite.

He feels bad about it, but reminds himself it's necessary because he's only going to be more useless to Sherlock if he burns himself out. Fingers stays with him, though, while he watches the crappy film and chews on poor Wilbur's saturated ear, nuzzling into his side and licking his hand whenever it drifts anywhere near him.

When Moriarty returns, even Fingers seems worn out and Sherlock appears more miserable than ever.

"Feel 'ucky, Daddy," he whimpers, wriggling around uncomfortably and clutching at his stomach.

"I know you do, Munchkin," he coos sympathetically. "Didn't your teddy bear help?" He means the hot water bottle shaped like one.

He shakes his head, lips wobbling. "T-too hot, Daddy!"

Really? He was icy cold just a second ago. But then, that's how these things go.

Towing the youngster onto his lap, Moriarty pushes up his thin tee and starts to gently massage his tense tummy, slow and steady, tracing large, even circles. "That better, Munchkin?" He nods drowsily, reaching up to wipe his burning, stuffy nostril. With a sigh, Moriarty digs up a creased tissue and holds it to the boy's shiny, red nose. "Blow," he instructs.

"Dun' wanna, Daddy!"

"I said blow, Sherlock," Jim repeats wearily, scrubbing his forehead. His voice hardens. "Don't make me ask again."

He feels like such a colossal dick when Sherlock's face crumples up in pain as he does so.

He's doing everything he can and it's still not enough. He doesn't know if he'll ever be enough.

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On the fifth day, Sherlock is more or less back to normal and Jim can breathe easily for the first time in what feels like weeks. He finally seems to be over the worst of it and if that isn't a _halle-fucking-luiah_ moment, then Moriarty doesn't know what is.

Moriarty, on the other hand…well, there's the slightest chance he _may_ have caught something similar.

Which is perfectly logical, he supposes, having shared a bed with the aggressively spluttering tot and come into contact with his boogers far more often that he's even remotely comfortable with.

That morning, he rouses feeling somewhat…off, with his limbs curiously heavy and his mind processing information at a much slower rate than is customary. He's aware that he's a little worse for wear, but Moriarty doesn't dare examine himself too closely lest he accidentally confirm that there's something amiss.

He's got a shitload of work to do and he doesn't have time to brood over a silly little glitch in his immune system.

So he goes about his day-to-day activities and pays no heed to his worsening symptoms.

When tea-time rolls around, Sherlock is unsurprisingly bored and orders Moriarty to play hide-and-seek. He counts to twenty ( _nineteen,_ because he's a rebel), before hunting down the chortling toddler. It's an easy task, considering the boy's penchant for flocking to the laundry basket and burying himself under a pile of stinky clothes every time they play. And also because Fingers is a whiny little bitch who can't be left alone for two minutes and planted himself outside the basket and yipped in outrage until Sherlock hissed at him to be quiet.

"Oh, dearie me," he clucks upon entering the bathroom. "Whatever should I do? I can't find Sherlock anywhere!" Heaving a dramatic sigh, he stoops down and 'searches' the floor, before creaking open the medicine cabinet and exaggeratedly inspecting the length of the bathtub, stifling a laugh at the muffled giggles which break out when he lifts up the toilet lid to peer in there.

"Nope." Moriarty shakes his head and sighs again. "Nothing. My, oh, my. Wherever could he be?"

The youngster can barely contain himself, smothering sparkling sniggers.

"Hmm...I wonder..." He rubs his chin, finally brushing a glance over the boy's preferred hiding spot. "What... about...HERE!" Sniggering in amusement, Moriarty rifles through damp towels, limp socks and other dirty items, trawling through the laundry until his hands meet the pink-faced, squealing Munchkin, grasping him under the armpits and heaving him up onto his hip.

"Gotcha!" Moriarty grins, tweaking his nose.

"Gain, Daddy! Gain!"

"Uh-uh. No can do, Munchkin. We gotta get you cleaned up," he announces, carding fingers through his grubby, dust-speckled curls. "Look at how messy you are! Such a messy boy!" Even as he speaks, he balances Sherlock on his hip, turns the tap and inserts the plug. Water gushes, a cloud of hot steam shaping as he adds a drop of lavender in the hopes of making his little one wonderfully relaxed and sleepy before bedtime and dips in a finger to test the temperature.

It doesn't take long for the tub to fill so he shuts off the water and dumps in a selection of toys, mostly sea-related. Squeaky whales, turtles, a blue and yellow submarine. That sort of thing. Jim's feeling pretty drained by this stage and as he slowly undresses his son and lowers him into the lukewarm water, he can't help but yearn for a momentary time-out from all of this non-stop parenting. Just a little break. Just so he can rest for a little while.

He eyes the colourful toys - beaming and bright and tender with naivety - like they're some kind of life-saviour.

But, despite Moriarty's best intentions, Sherlock's only interested in playing with _Daddy._

His head is throbbing, his muscles feel bruised and oppose his every movement, and the exhaustion that assaults the consulting criminal runs bone-deep. Nevertheless, Jim sits obligingly as Sherlock amuses himself by smearing a gloopy bubble beard over his face until there are more suds daubed around the father's chin than there are floating in the entire tub. The toddler giggles and babbles about this and that, and he forces himself to smile in response and grit his teeth through the nausea, fending off brusque chills and gagging unobtrusively.

It's getting really hard to think straight.

Giving a controlled shiver, Jim takes a deep breath and feels bile building in the back of his throat. Tremors invade his hands so he hides them behind his back and forces a calm exterior. The last thing he wants is to alarm his Munchkin.

"Hey, Sherlock?" The boy blinks up at him. "Daddy's gotta go fetch a towel, okay? A lovely and fluffy one, yeah? I'll be right back," Moriarty tells him, pressing a hand to his rolling stomach and praying to hell he doesn't fall apart in front of his son. "Daddy'll have you outta there in a jiffy, sweetheart. Just hang tight." Shit. Shit. _Shit_.

_I'm sorry, baby. Please, please, please try not to drown in my absence._

That would be just his luck, wouldn't it? That would be all his fault.

Moriarty makes it as far as the bedroom before he crumples over, heaving, gasping. He thinks he passes out.

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When he comes round, the first thing Jim notices is that he's crazy.

Leaning over his doubled-up form is a narrow-eyed, serious-faced Sherlock. Only it's not _his_ Sherlock.

It's Sherlock Holmes.

And he's _deducing_ him.

With a groan, Moriarty props himself up on his elbows, waiting for this very alive, very real, very much _adult_ figure to disappear, and when he doesn't, only then does Moriarty slowly rise to his feet and brush down his suit. And that's another thing. A Westwood suit? He wasn't wearing one before.

"Well?" Moriarty prompts, deliberately careless. "What are you waiting for? Get it over with. Rejoice in how I brought this upon myself. Go ahead. Show Daddy what a big boy you are. You can do it."

"Gloat?" Sherlock says haughtily, a rich laugh rumbling from his chest - and he missed this. He missed _them._ The fluid coat, thrown-on scarf, distrustful stance. It is beautiful. "I don't think so. While that _is_ certainly my style, I'll admit I'm not feeling especially victorious."

"Oh?" Moriarty replies inquisitively, brow raising a fraction. He circles the taller man, _just like old times,_ but it's different.

He has the sickening feeling that he might be the prey. He's not in control. This time he isn't three steps ahead. They're not on the same level, an even playing field. Nope, not today.

"No. Because in gaining an attentive parental figure, I don't suppose I ever did lose to begin with. Likewise, in acquiring a young son and forming an emotional attachment, neither did you. I don't believe so, anyway."

"Is that right?" His jaw extends, almost petulantly, and the defensive action is acutely familiar. "How do you figure?"

"Well, let's see." Oooh...That tone. That nonchalant tone he knows so well - Moriarty inhales it greedily. He's drunk on nostalgia. "You were astonishingly affectionate and always made me pancakes when I was having a bad morning and brushed my teeth for me when I was too tired and kissed my - often imaginary, I feel the need to draw attention to - ailments better. _And_ not forgetting how you very nearly killed your best friend all because I suffered a minor fall whilst under his care. Shall I deem this excursion a triumph or is it more accurately acknowledged as a defeat? Now, that - that is difficult. That, dear Jim, is our catch-22. We've both had our fair share of ups and downs, wouldn't you agree? You did, after all, push back many of your beloved projects on my behalf - not once, but habitually. I must say, I am almost flattered."

"How did you-"

"Please." He rolls his eyes. "I have perfect memory recall. I may have been too dense to deduce then, but I most certainly am not now. Which brings me to my next query: Seven identical blankets? Really, Jim?"

"Oh, piss off. You try dealing with a cranky, wailing toddler in the early hours of the morning who can't get to sleep without some bloody blanket. I could have ten of those damn things and it still mightn't be enough."

"True," the detective concurs, looking at him sideways. "I do hope you enjoyed your brat screaming your ear off the past several days. You're ill because of him - you know that, don't you? All that responsibility, nursing him back to health and whatnot, and look where it got you. Cooking up elaborate fantasies in your mind wherein you're forced to confront the grown-up adversary of your son and crisis of conscience." He makes a face, shudders. "Good God. Even your mind hates you."

"..You're a real prick, you know that?"

He smirks, clasping his hands behind his back and leisurely walking the length of the room. "It's been mentioned on occasion."

"Not enough in my opinion," Moriarty mutters, steadying himself against the wall and rubbing his eye absentmindedly. Fuck. The naked light is stabbing his eyeballs.

"I can't help but notice you're looking a little on the pale side. Perhaps you should sit down," Sherlock recommends, head held high and looking particularly snobbish. "I suggest you seek medical attention. Immediately, if you can. I'm afraid a hospital visit is inevitable at this point. If I may be so blunt, you appear to be heading towards a vacation at the _morgue."_

"Why?" Moriarty sneers. "You worried?"

"About you? Hardly."

"Why, Sherly, I'm hurt."

"Obviously," he drones. "In my experience, hallucinations are generally a cause for concern and according to your core body temperature, it's only going to get much, much worse." He pauses, realisation dawning on him. " _Oh_.. you meant your feelings? Dull." Sherlock pulls another face. "Ugh, this is why I keep John around. He's constantly nagging about rubbish like that. Useful insight now and then, I know, but such a drag. I find navigating the appropriate do's and don'ts of social conduct incredibly tiresome. It's so much easier not to bother with propriety at all. Though I am curious: do your illusions usually cause you offence or is it just me?"

"Can't say I've had much experience with them, to be honest," Moriarty drawls, undisturbed. "This would be a first."

He purses his lips pensively. "Yet you picked me? How obvious of you. You're losing your touch. Whatever happened to that tiny thing?" he questions abruptly, spinning on his heel and producing a fierce scowl. "The crying one."

Moriarty blinks in confusion and shakes his head as if to clear it. "You mean the child you?"

"Yes. That."

"Hm. Good question. I don't...I don't know," Moriarty admits with a flicker of a frown. "He should be around here somewhere."

The other man nods and makes a hum of agreement in the back of his throat.

"Probably crying."

"I presume so."

"You don't sound concerned," Sherlock notes.

He gives a lazy, one-shouldered shrug. "Neither do you."

"Yes, but I'm not real, am I?" he retorts. "I'm a figment of your imagination. I don't _feel_."

Shockingly tight around his throat, Jim claws at the collar of his shirt and swallows with extreme difficulty.

"I don't feel very much either," the consulting criminal claims. He's panting now, quietly woozy.

"Now, we both know that's not true," Sherlock admonishes sharply. "Seven blankets, Moriarty. Seven. Bit extreme, don't you think?"

Moriarty bristles at his tone. "Now, hang on a second-"

"I think you'd better wake up now, Jim," he comments and his voice, so dead and deep and full, is positively hypnotising. "You're dehydrated. Delirious. Mere moments away from a seizure. I wouldn't be at all surprised if you kicked the bucket any minute now."

Lids toppling shut, unconsciousness wraps gaunt fingers around his foot and aspires to drag him under, but he battles to the surface, gasping and wheezing. He needs to remember. He can't let himself forget. Suddenly panicked, he exclaims, "I-I don't…my-my son! H-he's-"

"Terrified," Sherlock supplies, face blank. "Very much so. Haven't we been over this?"

"I…I need t-t- _Jesus._ He's only a baby! He-he won't-" His breaths grow more and more laboured. He's freezing now and oddly giddy. He squints, slurring, "I've got to…to…"

Jim stumbles, giving a dizzy hiccup and repressing a giggle.

"Chop, chop, Daddy dear." Sherlock smiles and it's inhuman. "Time is tick, tick, ticking."

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Sometimes Sherlock secretly thinks Daddy might be a bit mean.

He whispered it to Fingers once and even though he's not very clever and chases his own tail a little too much for his liking, Sherlock thinks he probably agreed.

See, Daddy says bad things sometimes and his face gets really cross and all scrunched up and he shouts too loud at the scary-looking men with the funny accents and Sherlock wishes he could hide in the cupboard but it makes Daddy upset when he can't find him and Sherlock doesn't want Daddy upset because even though he's mean sometimes, he loves him a ton.

But it confuses Sherlock sometimes because Daddy doesn't say sorry when he does bad things even though Sherlock had to say sorry for being really naughty and drawing smiley faces on the wall and also for that time he posted Daddy's car keys in the letter box (he just didn't want him to leave, that's all. He wasn't trying to be bad. Honest. How was he supposed to know Daddy wasn't gonna drive? He wouldn't even know where to look for the keys of an airplane!)

But Daddy doesn't have to say sorry. He doesn't say sorry ever.

Well… sometimes he does. He says sorry to Sherlock. He said sorry to Wilbur too after he accidentally stepped on his head and squished it a little.

Maybe Sherlock's not being fair.

Like he said, he loves his Daddy and Daddy's the best. He gives the best cuddles and makes the best pancakes and only ever gets a little annoyed when Sherlock jumps on him or pokes him or slabbers on his good, work shirt. He didn't even act mad when Sherlock used his proper work tie as a sling for Fingers - who got a thorn stuck in his paw playing outside in the garden - and got splodges of muck and bite marks all over it by accident even though his jaw did that strange twitchy thing it sometimes does, so Sherlock knows he was.

See, Daddy might be mean, but he's a good Daddy, so Sherlock doesn't understand at first why he doesn't come even though he shouts so loud his throat hurts and he coughs for a whole minute straight.

He doesn't understand at first why he's been in the bath for too long that the water's gone cold and his skin looks old and wrinkly, and maybe Daddy's mean, but he wouldn't play a prank like this. Not with him. Not at bath-time. That wouldn't be very funny.

See, Daddy never leaves Sherlock alone in the tub for very long - only for a second or two - and he was only supposed to be grabbing a towel and that feels like a million, billion years ago.

Daddy would be really disappointed in him if he got out by himself in case he slipped or something and Sherlock really should know better, but he's getting sort of worried now and it's the bad kind of silent.

Sherlock stretches his neck out and listens real hard and from a long, long way away, he thinks he hears something like mumbling. The same mumbling Daddy does in his sleep sometimes, but why would he be sleeping?

Heart pounding, Sherlock wipes his soggy hands on his own mostly dry arms and holds onto the side of the tub as tight as he can, and then he very, very carefully lifts one leg over 'til his toes touch the scratchy towel on the floor and then the next, only wobbling a little bit. Pretty soon, he's out but he's still shivering, so Sherlock quickly slips one of Daddy's dirty t-shirts over his head even though it falls to his knees because he can't see anything else.

Sherlock feels worse and worse the closer he gets to the weird, mumbling sounds and his tummy's so twisted, he thinks he might be sick all over again.

Then he spots Daddy, lying in a clumsy heap, and he almost spews his lovely lunch all over the place right then.

His Daddy's forehead is covered in sweat and his skin is so many colours, it makes Sherlock's head spin, because he's red and green and white all at the same time, and if it weren't for his lips moving, Sherlock might have thought he was dead.

"Daddy!" he yells, not meaning to yell so loud, or for his voice to shake, or for his cheeks to get so wet so quickly, but Daddy still isn't moving and he doesn't want him to be dead. "Daddy! Wake up! Wake up! _Daddyyy_!"

His throat's sore more than ever before and everything's gotten all weird and fuzzy, but he doesn't care. He tugs and he tugs and he tugs on Daddy's hand and when that doesn't work, he hits him hard and the slap echoes through the room and he doesn't even feel guilty.

Because Daddy still doesn't move. He doesn't do anything.

His hand is floppy and hot in Sherlock's and he-he doesn't know what to do! Sherlock just wants him to wake up. He wants him to wake up more than anything.

Even if he's mean.

So long as he wakes up, he can be the meanest and to Sherlock, it won't mean a thing.

"Peas be okay," Sherlock whispers. " _Peas_ wake up, Daddy. Peas."

He pats Daddy's pockets and feels for the cold lump that always digs into him when he's lying on Daddy's chest and listening to his heartbeat, which he knows that from now on will be his favourite sound in the whole wide world.

Sherlock finally finds the phone and it's no trouble guessing Daddy's password (it's **munchk7n.** Of course, it's **munchk7n**. _Obviously_ ), and then he finds Uncle Seb's number and he presses the call button like he's seen his Daddy do a hundred times before.

Then it's okay. Everything's going to be okay.

Because he answers on the very first ring.

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_Thanks for reading!_

_I wanted to try something a little different with Sherlock's childish narrative but I hope it didn't bug anyone or become overly repetitive. He kind of broke my heart and I felt terrible doing that to him. Also, yay for the return of Adult Sherlock! Well_ _...kind of._

 _B_ _eware: may not be entirely medically accurate. That's not my forte._


	11. Under the Influence

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**Under the Influence**

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**A/N:** Very, very sorry for the delay. I haven't been very well lately and was unable to write much (though I did get a small one-shot written, which was quite an accomplishment, as well as a companion piece of sorts to this story called _Sweet Redemption._ If you haven't already, I'd recommend you take a look at it. It's great :p). I know it was a crappy place to leave it, so you'll be happy to know this one will not end on a cliffy, though the following chapter will be a bit of a continuation.

On another note, the lovely LittleDesertRose has made some fantastic fanart for this story, which you can check out over on Ao3 or Deviantart. She even included Fingers, which I found totally awesome.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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Water pools over green, fields are swamped with exaggerated, opaque puddles. Streams flow freely, spilling out over the roadside, and the atmosphere shrinks in on itself with tension.

Raindrops cling to limp strands of grass, while branches appear on the brink of collapse, caving in, drooping down, darkened wood saturated as if to the core.

He roars down the winding country roads. Flying past the luminous sign kindly reminding drivers of the 30 mile speed limit, his tires squeal and swerve on the turbulent, waterlogged tar, a torrent of water erupting behind him, and he's forced to take it slow, though if ever there were a reason to obliterate the speed limit, it would be this. Even so, Sebastian would be of no use to anyone wrapped around a telephone pole, so he exercises a modest amount of caution (pushing little over forty), despite every single instinct goading him to _get there as fast as he fucking well can._

The standard twenty-minute trip has now been stretched to a far from ideal thirty-five, and Sebastian might know nothing about medical emergencies, but he knows every second counts.

He can only hope he gets there on time. Figures something would happen to Jim during one of the worst fricking rainstorms to hit Britain in recent years.

The windscreen wipers work tirelessly, but the heavy rain cascades down his windshield nevertheless, and all he can see is a ripple of colour and short-lived, dull glows where there should be discernible scenery and passing vehicles.

The sun is vanishing in a muddle of fog and dusk and heavy, unrelenting showers, and darkness is bordering him in.

In his panic and haste, Sebastian doesn't notice his foot pressing down harder on the accelerator, and he relents as he hits another bottomless puddle hard, hosing his side doors and spraying a hail of muck and gravel in his path.

With a shuddering sigh, he ignores the pesky tremors in his hands and continues to squint out the window.

His heart hasn't stopped pounding since this whole ordeal began…

_His shirt pocket lights up and begins to vibrate and Sebastian answers it minus any cowardly hesitation with a terse, "Jim, I swear to God, if this another damn assignment, I will come over there and kick your ass myse-"_

_"Unca - u-unca Seb?" a small, scared voice pipes up on the other line and he swiftly changes tone. Sure, he's pissed at Jim, but the last thing Sebastian ever wanted is for his anger to affect Sherlock; he couldn't bear it if he ever hurt the kid._

_"Sorry, kiddo," Sebastian says cheerily. "Thought it was your Dad. He around? 'Cause I bet he wouldn't be too happy to hear you're playing with his phone again."_

_"H-he here," the little boy confirms in a wobbly voice that sounds close to tears, followed by a large sniff that has the hair on Sebastian's arms rising. Something is definitely not right here. "But Daddy not - he not okay, Unca Seb, and I dun know what to-to - what to do."_

_Swallowing his alarm, the man softens his voice to reassure, "It's okay, buddy. Take a nice deep breath and tell me what happened. How is your Dad not okay? Describe him to me. Is there any blood? Bad ouchies? It's gonna be alright, squirt. Just take a deep breath."_

_There's a hiccupping sound and a gulping whimper. "No-no blood," he confirms and Sebastian all but wilts with relief, "But Daddy h-hot and he-he not waking up."_

_Oh, shit. That isn't good._

_"You did a great job, kiddo," he remarks, blinking back fear. "You're being really, really brave. I know it's tough, but can you maybe stay with your Daddy for a bit 'til I get there? I'll be there as fast as I can. Promise. I'm heading to my car right now."_

_Outside, the weather is brutal. Black clouds have been swarming the sky in preparation all evening and it was only a matter of time before they unleashed a heady downpour._

_By this point, the wind is whistling and swearing loudly as it thrusts the rain at the trees, whose fearful branches duck and swerve with little hope of evasion, and the rain melts into his elegant suit as he braces the storm._

_Cutting through the fierce winds and shielding his face with one hand, Sebastian jumps into his black SUV - fast but gloriously inconspicuous - and shoves his keys into the ignition while balancing the phone between his collarbone and his ear. The engine rumbles to life._

_Sebastian shivers and shakes off his hair like a wet dog, droplets of water tumbling down his sharp cheekbones and gathering in the arc of his lower lip. His hair is now entirely flat, sticking to his forehead, and so black that it blends effortlessly into the approaching night._

_"In the mean time," he coaches in a calming tone, peeling off his sopping jacket, chucking it in the backseat, and turning on the heating, before casting a glance over his shoulder and backing out of his drive. "Can you keep up the good work and keep on talking to me? I'm gonna dial 999 on my other phone and some lovely folks are gonna come out to your house and help your Daddy, but they might get there before I do, got that? If they do, you'll need to let them in. But don't worry about that just yet. You just keep talking to me. Tell me anything. It's really important that you don't hang up, okay?"_

_Sherlock whispers, "O-okay."_

_"Excellent," Sebastian replies breezily, thankful that Sherlock isn't here to witness the beads of sweat gathering between the cracks of his casual façade._

_"So…" He clucks his tongue. "Ever heard of the game Twenty questions?"_

Midway through their conversation, while Sherlock was in the middle of explaining the plot from his favourite film, Lilo&Stitch, the phone lines had abruptly crashed and entire area's power went out.

Immediately, Sebastian had released a long line of swear words and resisted the urge to bang his head off the steering wheel. The kid's probably freaking the hell out. And God knows how long it'll take before the power's up and running again? Hours, probably.

Never in his life has Sebastian been particularly religious, but as he sits here in the deafening silence with only the horrific weather conditions and his riving engine for company, hands clenching around the wheel and useless phone discarded on his lap, he finds himself praying to whatever God out there that'll listen.

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Uncle Seb said don't hang up, and he didn't.

The lights flickered, then the phone went quiet and gave a long _beeeeeep_ , and he didn't hang up. Sherlock set the phone down on the floor real careful-like and sat back on his hunches with his hands covering his cheeks, and thought that maybe if he stared at it long enough, maybe Uncle Seb's voice would come back.

But it didn't.

The lights flickered some more, then suddenly there weren't any lights on anymore, and the pitter patter of rain on the roof seemed really loud all of a sudden, while the room got darker and darker and darker, 'til it was nearly black.

Uncle Seb had told Sherlock not to leave Daddy - and he didn't! - but as the furniture turns to black blobs and goosebumps rise up on his arms and Sherlock can make out frosty mist in front of his face when he breathes out, he knows he has to do something. He's cold and hungry and he's afraid that soon he won't be able to see anything in front of him at all.

So Sherlock pushes himself to his feet and hobbles on sore legs to his room, dripping dots all over the floor from his soaking hair. Kneeling down, Sherlock sticks his hand in his hidey hole under his wardrobe where he stashes his secret stuff and feels around until his hand touches the chilly plastic of his Batman torch. He grabs Wilbur and his Blankie and while he's at it, Sherlock supposes he might as well pinch some chocolate digestives from the biscuit jar in the pantry too.

When he gets back, Daddy's sitting up straight and gazing around him and his eyes are open and he's even blinking, but Sherlock still doesn't believe he's awake. His face is his Daddy's face, but right now, he doesn't look a great deal like his Daddy, and he's muttering a lot about a lot of things that don't make a lot of sense.

And Sherlock knows it's not very brave of him, but he's not so sure he wants to go back to this man.

" _Incy Wincy Spider Climbed Up The WaterSpout,"_ Daddy says slowly, in a voice so flat and _different_ , that it gives him shivers.

His Daddy loves nursery rhymes and he loves his Daddy's nursery rhymes, but this doesn't send him to sleep, this doesn't chase the bad dreams away. This makes him want to crawl under his blankie and shuts his eyes so tight, he'll see the stars instead.

His voice is a whisper. _"Down Came The Rain and Washed The Spider Out,"_ He laughs, chokes, coughs for a bit, and Sherlock wants to run, to yell, to tell him to _stop_ , but he's frozen by the door, shinning the torch and doing all he can not to cry again, " _Out Came The Sun and Dried Up All The Rain…"_

His eyes are wild and his breaths are winded and he sings so very soft.

_"And Incy Wincy Spider Climbed Up The Spout Again."_

Sherlock doesn't know if it's the eyes or the mouth or the shivers down his spine, but Sherlock doesn't like when his Daddy says those words, not when he says them like _that_.

But then Daddy makes a sound, a very strange sad sound, and it sounds so much like crying that Sherlock stops being scared, because he doesn't want his Daddy to be scared, too.

Sherlock dashes to his side and slips his fingers through his Daddy's, who doesn't even look at him, squeezing them tight. He cuddles up beside Daddy and flings his blankie around them both, since it's freezing now and Daddy's shaking so hard, it confuses Sherlock because his skin is still so warm.

His tummy rumbles again, so Sherlock nibbles on the biscuits, even though he doesn't really want them, and dusts the crumbs off by smacking his hands together. It doesn't get rid of all of them, though, 'cause when he puts his thumb in his mouth, it still tastes a bit like digestives. He sneezes in the darkness and wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and he waits, though he's not sure what he's supposed to be waiting for.

 _"…the heart…,"_ Daddy is mumbling and tilting his head and he looks so, so confused, _"…I was s'pposed to-to burn your...your heart. It w'snt s'pposed to be me, Sh'rlock. What h've you done to my heart?"_

There's that funny feeling in his tummy again.

It doesn't matter, though. It doesn't matter - 'cause when Sherlock flips his Daddy's hand over and touches his wrist, his heartbeat is still there and he's breathing in and out - Sherlock counts the breaths, he's getting better at numbers, - and Uncle Seb will be here any minute and it _doesn't matter._ None of it.

Does it?

Sherlock bites his lip and tries not to think about it, but it's tough. He thinks a lot about a bunch of stuff all the time. It's hard to stop now.

And it hurts; and he doesn't know why.

Alone and scared, Sherlock burrows his head in his Daddy's stomach and hides from the world. He doesn't move when his neck gets stiff or his legs cramp. He doesn't move when the lights turn back on or when the voices ring out crystal clear.

He doesn't move until hands grasp him round the middle and pluck him away while he holds onto his Daddy's shirt and cries when they pull and cries when they talk and screams when his fingers finally get pried away.

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Rubber screeched as he grinds to a halt and clambers out of the SUV, before sprinting to the keypad and entering the security code just as the ambulance pulls up to the entrance, tapping the icon to spring open the gates and allow them access.

Their lights spin and red and blue fragments orbit the premise, cast along the surface of the walls and hedges, and the shrill siren dies away as they park and two, male paramedics in bright, luminous jackets hop out.

"Right this way, gentlemen," Sebastian directs with a grim smile, trekking inside and wondering what exactly is ahead of them.

They locate the pair in Jim's bedroom where Sherlock is wrapped around his father's abdomen and quietly sobbing, while Moriarty stares off into the distance, face flushed and drenched in sweat, twitching and rambling incoherently. The boy is clothed in only an oversized shirt, the back of which is stuck to his skin as if he was damp when he put it on, which seems likely considering his curls are stringy with moisture and there are suds clung to his bare legs.

Despite the power having returned, he is gripping a small, LED torch, which emits a small circle of light onto Jim's thigh, and he continues to sniffle softly and horde the bulge of fabric in his little fist.

The two paramedics share a bleak look, before squatting down and checking Jim's vitals, shinning a flashlight in his eyes and trying to generate a response from the agitated man.

Sebastian, meanwhile, addresses Sherlock.

"Hey, Sherlock? Sherlock, buddy, it's okay. You can let go now. Help is here." He places one hand on the youngster's back and that's when it all goes to shit.

Sherlock's bawling deepens and he clings on tighter to his Dad in fear, shaking his head and smearing snot and tears everywhere.

"No," he whimpers. "No, no, no. My Daddy. Dun take my Daddy."

"It's alright, kiddo. It's not forever. Your Daddy has to go away for a bit, so that these good people can make him better - don't you want him to get better?" But logic tends not to work on toddlers.

"No!" he burbles, crying harder. "No! My Daddy!"

"I'm sorry, bud." And damn, he really, really is. "But you've gotta come with me. Your Dad is sick and you have to let him take his special medicine."

"Can-can take med'cine hewe."

"He can't, though. That's the problem. He has to go to the hospital."

Sherlock wails, "But-but me dun wan him to go!"

"Sir?" The man, Dave, going by his nametag, says with an apologetic frown. "I'm afraid we really need to move him now."

"Yeah," Sebastian sighs. "Got it." Knowing that if he keeps trying to reason with Sherlock, they'll be trapped here forever, Sebastian grits his teeth and steels himself, before sweeping the little boy up with one arm.

"No! _NO!_ " Sherlock screeches, kicking and flailing in his grasp. "Daddy! _DADDY!"_

He hangs over Sebastian's arms, stretching the shirt in his refusal to liberate it, screaming and howling with bright red cheeks and the most gut-wrenching of expressions, tear drops falling from his lashes.

The older man's heart breaks, but that doesn't stop Sebastian from peeling off his unyielding grip. And with the toddler struggling over his shoulder, breathless and frantically reaching out, he turns his back and he walks away.

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After leaving Sherlock off with some reliable caretakers, he returns to the hospital where he fills in Jim's forms, lying every now and again about the trivial facts like age, where's he's from, any future contact information, that sort of thing, and signs him in under one of his common alias, James Brook. He is being treated for a dangerously high fever and severe dehydration, and the doctor assured him there would be no long-lasting damage. If left untreated, however, the consequences would have certainly been fatal, and as slim a chance at it might be, if Moriarty _had_ survived, there would have been many substantial complications that Jim would never have had the patience to deal with. As of now, they've given him a dose of fever-reducing medicine, as well as putting him on a drip to replenish any lost fluids.

Oh, and whatever they've given him? It's making him loopy as hell.

"Seb," Jim grumbles, "Go an' fetch my mini-marshm'llow," voice drowned out by the fact that he is lying face-down and his mouth is stuffed with the edge of a pillow. His Irish accent is thicker than he's heard in a long time and even if his words weren't tripping up and falling over themselves, anyone other than Sebastian would have a very hard time interpreting the man and now even he's left struggling.

He scratches his head in puzzlement. "Your what?"

 _"You know,"_ Moriarty brandishes a lumbering arm in the air, before deciding that takes too much effort and letting it make a nose-dive towards the floor, arm flopping by his bedside. "My fluffy jelly tot."

"What the hell is that?" He thought that was a reasonable question, but apparently, he was wrong, because Moriarty only becomes more annoyed.

" _Sebbyyyyyy_ ," he whines impatiently, voice climbing into petulant territory as he rolls over and glares at him. "I want my squishy. Gimmie - else I'm gonna-I'm gonna break your stupid, u'ly feet."

Great. Now he's threatening him. "Jim, what on earth are you talking about?" Sebastian demands in irritation. "I don't understan-"

Moriarty's scowl lessens a bit as he shoves away the bed covers, heaves himself up and yawns, garbling in a drowsy jumble as he swipes at his eyes, "Your big toe looks like it ate all the 'lil toes."

"Not _that_ ," Sebastian clarifies, huffing an exasperated breath and tossing in an eye roll for free, before enunciating slowly, "What is a squishy?"

"It's m'squishy, Sebby," Jim moodily informs him, dangling his legs over the bed and peering down at them in fascination as he swings his feet back and forth, strumming his knuckles against the bedpost. "You can't have it."

Sebastian sighs. "That's… not very helpful to me at the moment. And lie back down," he scolds, taking hold of the other man's shoulders and pushing. "You're going to rip out your IV if you keep wriggling around like this."

"Just gimmie, Sebby," Jim repeats, but he lies back without any trouble while Sebastian fixes his blankets around him. The consulting criminal's hand bunches in frustration and he weakly thumps the bed with a perplexed, "I just want…Why won't you gimmie?"

"I _would,"_ Sebastian tells him. "But you're not making any sense."

"Gotta be 'round here…round here somewhere…" He pats the bed and frowns blearily. "Hand 'em over, Seb. I know you - you have 'em. He's gonna be scared."

" _He_? Did you say he?" he asks in disbelief. "Shit," Sebastian exclaims, smacking his forehead, "Are you talking about Sherlock?"

But he's lost him again as Jim picks at the coverlet's pills and blows them away with a noisy gust. _Jesus_. It's like dealing with a child. "Jim, focus." Sebastian snaps his fingers until wide, glassy brown eyes stare up at him. "Is it Sherlock? Is it Sherlock you want?"

Brows collapsing in peculiarly exposed thought, Jim glances away again and mumbles, "He's all I…all I have, Sebby. Don't want anything else."

And fuck if that doesn't hit Sebastian right in the solar plexus.

"Jim…" As much as it pains him to deny his sick friend's request, he has to. "Sherlock's not here right now. He's with Anna and June. You remember - at the safe house? The one for emergencies?"

"But-but I want 'em," he gripes, as if that alone solves everything, waiting for Sebastian to change his mind and magic Sherlock to the hospital doorway. Jim's used to getting what he wants and this is no different. Consequences be damned.

"I know you do," Sebastian replies gently. "But he's safe, alright? He won't be scared." Moriarty grunts some variety of protest, but can't summon the energy to do little more than pout. "Look - you're exhausted. You need to rest. I'll call the nurses, okay?" Sebastian suggests, already inching towards the call button. "They'll give you something to help you sleep."

Head shaking, he flings his arms over his face and rambles, "Don't want…Seb, don't want to go - don't make me go to sleep. I don't want to go to sleep."

"It's okay, Jim," he responds sympathetically as the nurse enters. "You'll feel much better."

"No! _No_!" He begins thrashing as the woman inserts the needle and the drugs pump through the tube into his system. "No! No! You can't make me!"

It's like deja vu all over again. So reassurance didn't work; time to take a less gentle approach. "Jim! Stop it!" Sebastian snaps harshly, pleased when he flinches and his feral eyes latch onto his cool, collected ones. God knows, he needs to be the rational one here.

Sebastian has never seen his boss in such a panic-stricken state and it is a little unsettling to witness the consulting criminal seemingly come apart at the seams.

Jim sniffs. "I don't - I don't like sleeping without my squishy…"

Grimacing and turning away, he offers lamely, "It's alright." The statement rings hollow.

But by this stage, the drugs are already beginning to take effect, and Moriarty sinks down deeper onto the bed with a lethargic, "Don't take…don't take my squishy." His arm instinctively snakes around the pillow, though his lip scrunches as if bewildered by its non-Munchkin-like puffiness.

"I won't. Promise."

"Mine," he reiterates for good measure.

"Yeah. I know. Go to sleep."

All he needs now is a damn, 'Property of JM,' sticker.

"Still wanna break your…your st'pid, uly f-feet…" his slurred voice dwindles away, only to be replaced by slow, passive snores.

He chuckles. "I'm sure you'll find a reason," Sebastian comments dryly, though his lips are dangerously close to smiling.

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"How long do you I have to stay in this landmine of disease?" Jim wonders the following morning, unable to prevent his aversion from trickling into his facial muscles or tone as he checks his phone for new texts and updating their clients via email that he's out of commission for the next day or two, because according to Sebastian, he's here to, 'rest, not work.' Bleh. He hates hospitals, he hates sick people, he hates the poor wifi connection and the constant monitoring and their cardboard food and the friendly staff - but _most of all_ , he hates, hates, hates the vulgar, itchy hospital gown he was shoved into. It has a poka-dot pattern on it. _Poka-dots._ There is nothing more shabby and unrefined than poka-dots.

"Only for another two or three days and then they're bound to release you," Sebastian ventures - what he _doesn't_ say, is that if Jim keeps up the way he has been, then there is no doubt in his mind that he'll have the release papers shoved in his arms to sign by tomorrow. Is it possible to kick out patients for being annoying? It seems unlikely, being negligent and unethical and all, but in Jim's case, Sebastian wouldn't blame them. Heck, he's tempted to throw him out the window half the time himself and he's used to it.

He's already whined about being bored several times to anyone who'll listen and it's starting to get on Sebastian's (and everyone else's) nerves - something he's sure the little prick knows.

Therefore, he feels it is his personal duty to ensure that a similar incident never occurs again. Only problem is, it's damn near impossible to deter Jim from anything.

"You know..." he says thoughtfully, "All of this could have been prevented if you'd only looked after yourself - No, don't roll your eyes at me. You need to take better care of yourself, James. For Sherlock's sake, at any rate."

"What are you? My mother?" Moriarty snorts. "And yuck. Don't call me that. You know how I abhor it."

"Good." He jerks his head. "Then maybe you'll listen. What if Sherlock hadn't called me, huh?" He sounds like a nagging mother-hen, Sebastian knows. But somebody needs to do something. "Then where would you be? I mean it, Jim - that kid was scared stiff. You were very lucky he called when he did."

"Save it, Sebastian." Jim rewards his genuine concern with barely a glance, as he shifts his features into scorn. "I'm lying in a filthy hospital ward with a bunch of _average_ people. Lesson learned."

"You have your own room," Sebastian states in confusion, glancing around at the pale, lemon room he thought was actually rather cosy, all things considered. "This is a private hospital."

"I don't care. It reeks of death and old people."

"You sound like a child."

"No, I don't," he rebuts grumpily, before a wicked grin stirs his lips and he asks impishly, "Hey, can I do an American accent with the nurses?"

"No." _God, no_ , Sebastian thinks, repressing a shudder. Hasn't he tormented them enough with his antics? "They already know you're Irish."

"You're no fun," Jim pouts, flopping back on the pillows and crossing his arms. "I should fire you."

The other man scoffs, "Like that's all you have up your sleeves."

"What do you mean?" His brows knit and he looks sincerely baffled.

"Oh, come on. You're not planning to…jeez, I dunno - taser my balls again now that you're lucid?"

His boss cocks his head, forehead wrinkled, but innocent eyes or not, Sebastian doesn't trust the dainty tone as he chuckles, "Now why would I do a cheeky thing like that?"

"Beats me, Jim." He shrugs. "Why do you do anything?"

Leaning forward, he licks his lips and presents him with a fraction of a frown. "Sebby, Sebby, Sebby…" Jim tuts. "Do you really think so little of me?"

"Not at all," Sebastian rolls his eyes, voice laden with sarcasm, "I forgot you're a gentle little angel. Wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Course not. What business does a spider have with flies?"

The creases around Sebastian's eyes tighten. "Are you calling me a fly?"

"Yes. No," Jim murmurs, overly blasé, but with a hint of a smirk accompanying his glittering stare. "Take a wild guess. I'm on a lot of medication."

"That's not an excuse."

"Could be. Look at me, Sebastian. I have an Iv bag," he points out, jiggling the bag of liquid, despite being told _over and over_ again not to. "Doesn't that warrant a little sympathy?"

"So it's sympathy you're after?"

"No. Just a little forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?" he echoes dubiously. _"What?"_

Jim has the decency to appear a little on the shameful side, twiddling his thumbs. "I was harsh."

He nods hardly. "You were."

"I could have killed you."

"You almost did."

"But…" he glances up sweetly, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "You're okay now?"

He's not talking about his health.

"I don't hold grudges, Jimmy," Sebastian sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Least not with you. If I did, I'd have been out of a job years ago."

"Suppose." Jim returns to his default mischievous expression. "Also...you'd be dead ten times over."

"That too," he concedes, before jerking a thumb towards the door. "Listen - I gotta go. I've got some shit to care of. And before you ask, yes, I'll pay Anna and June a visit, see how Sherlock's doing. Maybe cheer him up - you know he'll be moping. I'll also grab some stuff for you and leave it off later when I'm finished." He checks his watch and shrugs on his jacket. "Remember - no work, play nice with the staff, and absolutely no American accents. Those are the rules. And just so you know, your apology is pending."

"You never could stay mad at me, Sebastian," Jim says smugly.

"Don't get too comfortable. There's a lumpy hospital pillow with your name on it."

"You wouldn't," he states with an ungodly smirk. "My face is way too beautiful to smother."

Sebastian mutters as he leaves, "Bloody twat."

"Love you too," the little shit sings after him.

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_Thanks for reading and thank-you for your continued support and understanding. You guys are truly amazing. Hope this doesn't disappoint anyone._

_Please disregard anything medical-related, though, because I seriously suck at sick-fics. Oh, and the reason Moriarty comes across as being really childish in this chapter is because that's how Sebastian views him, case anyone's wondering._


	12. Fired Shots

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**Fired Shots**

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**A/N:** This chapter is fluff. Pure and utter fluff. Be prepared for your teeth to rot.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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Finally, approaching the sixth day of his hospitalization, Sebastian brings Sherlock to visit.

He's dwarfed by a spacious cap and a bulky scarf that he tows along the corridor behind him, and he darts along 'flying' one of his toy cars in the air - his miniature, black London cab, to be precise. One for the collectors. Life-like and home to the most incredibly discreet of details and painted with a lovely glossy sheen. Cost Jim a small fortune. But it was worth every penny.

Even if it gets chucked about more often than not.

He recognises the scarf - rich, dark slate blue cloth and tightly interwoven wool that winds heftily around the youngster's shoulders and pools at his feet. It's the same scarf Moriarty dons on occasion or spurts his signature cologne on each week due to its mysterious ability to make his son drift off into a contented sleep.

The very sight of it makes him frown.

It's basically the equivalent to having Sherlock show up in his bloody footy pyjamas.

The article's freaking _layered_ with stains. Blackcurrant juice, toothpaste, grass stains, waxy crayon, chocolate… Jesus - does he spy _blood_? Just how long has Sherlock been hooked on that grimy thing? (And _where_ _the hell_ would he stumble upon even a drop of blood?)

It's one thing to be obsessed with his stuff when Jim himself is there to supervise and intervene when necessary, but it looks like he's been carting that around solidly for the past week.

Not only that, but lopsided and obscuring the toddler's face is Moriarty's very own tourist cap - a gag gift from Sebby a few years back, who joked that the consulting criminal did such a great service ( _disservice_ ) to this country and ought to celebrate it - hence, the loud display of patriotism, red and blue, with the British flag neatly printed on it.

Where in God's name did Sherlock dig _that_ up? He must have rummaged through Jim's entire wardrobe to unearth that flash from the past.

His assessment consists only of the succinct seconds it takes to rake his eyes over his son's bizarre form - and as far as first impressions go, they aren't off to a great start.

With a glittery beam that causes a small smile to rise to Jim's lips, Sherlock dances to a stop at the door and squeals, "Daddy!" as he quickly drops Sebastian's hand.

He blazes into the room and pounces on the bed - or, tries to. He grunts and grapples as he loses his footing on the bed covers, dragging the sheets down onto the floor and hurling himself upwards, tongue pushing out as the jumbo cap skews his intent features and blocks his vision.

Sebastian hurries into the room to lend the toddler a helping hand, then flops down onto the armchair with an ample grin.

Sherlock clambers onto Jim's lap and nuzzles into his stomach without further greeting, while Moriarty automatically begins massaging his spine with broad, soothing strokes, seemingly comfortable just to bathe in his Daddy's presence after a short - agonisingly _loooonng_ \- spell of absence.

The knot of unease in his gut at not having his Munchkin within walking distance, unravels at the familiar warmth of his son cuddling into him. He missed him like a lost limb.

Every night for the past four days, once Sebastian took over baby-sitting duties, Moriarty has been calling - and seldom skype-calling, since he meant it when he said the hospital's network connection sucks - the upset boy, who refused to sleep unless it was in his Daddy's bed and whose mind-boggling joy at hearing Jim's voice almost made him break down over the phone. (He confesses to having missed his sweet little voice, too, and tearing up at the child's long-winded, drawn-out stories of his day, that, although not riveting in the sense that Jim couldn't care less what Shaun the Sheep was up to, certainly made his day. And it killed him knowing he couldn't be there to offer a comfy lap for Sherlock to rest his head while he watched tedious cartoons.)

Because Moriarty is such a pain in the ass when it comes to lying still and _resting_ , he wasn't allowed visitors up until now, for fear that he'd 'overtax' himself, and the lengthy separation was gruelling for both of them. If anything, the stress only worsened Jim's condition.

"My, oh my," Jim teases, a fond smile hovering his lips. "Who do we have here?"

Sherlock giggles. "Lion!" he declares, leaning back a bit to swipe at Moriarty's chest and pretending to nip at the buttons on his shirt.

"A _lion_?" he repeats in wide-eyed fear, sending a questioning look Sebastian's way. _Lion King_ , he mouths back and Jim nods in understanding. Cowering away and lifting a hand to shield his face, the young father cries, "Please, don't hurt me, Mr. Lion! I'll be good, I swear!"

Sherlock chortles happily from under the cap and gives a rumbling roar.

Upping the drama another notch, Moriarty begs, "Uncle Seb, you gotta save me from this monstrous creature! Help me! Please!"

The boy is positively shrieking in amusement and he whips off the impractical cap to announce, "Silly, Daddy! It me!"

" _Munchkin_?" Jim breathes in relief, grinning and enveloping him in a loving hug. "Oh, thank heavens! Daddy thought he was going to get _eaten_ there for a sec." He wipes invisible sweat from his brow. "Phew."

"Me nevew eat 'oo, Daddy," Sherlock says in consolation, patting his arm.

"Oh. Well - thank-you. Good to know." He pulls away and holding him at arm's length, queries sternly, "Now, you being good for your uncle?"

"Uh-huh," Sherlock pledges quickly. "Me bwush my teeth! See, Daddy? See?" Pulling his lips back with his fingers, he bears his sparklingly clean teeth for Moriarty to examine and breathes peppermint into his face.

"Yeah, I see. That's brilliant, baby," the consulting criminal praises. "Well done." But the close up only serves to have his good-humoured smile replaced with crumpled brows as he takes in the state of the child's locks. "Sherlock…who brushed your hair?"

Or who _didn't brush it,_ more likely. His lush curls are tangled in tricky, dense knots, with tiny balls of fluff and - _oh, boy_ \- pieces of grass stockpiled in the crowded, dark mop. "And look at that," he tuts, licking the pad of his thumb and scrubbing his Munchkin's cheek. "You've got strawberry jam all over your face, too. Did you leave him to his own devices this morning or did he somehow convince you to let him début a new look?" he directs disapprovingly towards Sebastian, who looks only mildly guilty.

"Unca Seb snap brush in half!" Sherlock chirps.

Sebastian doesn't hesitate, insisting, "He did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

Ignoring the children's squabble as he attempts to iron out the toddler's curls with his fingers, picking and prodding to no avail, Jim sighs and mutters, "This is never going to work," before glancing around until he spots the comb on his bedside table. He drizzles a splash of cold water over the spiky surface first, then brings it towards a ducking Sherlock, who appears appropriately apprehensive, with an apologetic, "Sorry, sweetheart. This'll probably hurt."

With every startled gasp and teary-eyed wince from his son, Jim's glare grows darker and Sebastian nervously licks his lips. "I did try," he tells him solemnly, but Moriarty's not so inclined to believe him.

"And what's your excuse for the scarf?"

"I got tired of the off again/on again waterworks," he replies with a shrug, and that seems to be answer enough.

Jim only _hmm's_ noncommittally in response.

As the painful, hair-induced torture draws to a close, Sherlock sniffs and fiddles with a bunch of the scarf, and it's then that Moriarty notices the Mr. Men's Mr. bump plaster wrapped around his index finger. How that escaped his attention before, he's not sure, but his jaw sets as the mysterious source of blood is revealed.

"And what's this?" Jim questions with scarcely concealed anger, gently taking Sherlock's hand in his to inspect it and catching Sebastian's wince as he skims a featherlike finger along the area.

"At ease, boss," the other man answers with forced nonchalance. "It's only a scratch."

He refrains from peeling back the frayed tip to check for himself, though he is sorely tempted.

Softening his mannerisms with a touch of tenderness, Jim turns to Sherlock, who is now sitting up and rolling his toy cab up and down the length of Moriarty's arm, with the inclusion of fitting sound-effects. "What happened, baby?" he coaxes gently. "How'd you get this terrible ouchie?"

He asks Sherlock only because children are notoriously forthcoming about the unfortunate circumstances that lead to their injuries, when given the opportunity to snag some sympathy. Not to mention, they're fantastic at the whole, blunt honesty thing.

"Touched the broke bits," the little boy enlightens him vaguely, while keenly pushing the toy and making it go _brum brum_ with little droplets of spit spewing from his lips.

His lips tighten. "What broken bits?"

This time it's Sebastian who supplies, "He knocked over a glass and then tried to pick up the shards before I could sweep them up."

It's troubling how easily Moriarty can picture it.

Sherlock, initially proud of being a big boy entrusted with the care of a cup without a lid, becoming distracted and bashing the glass with his elbow, before flinching at the noisy smash and watching the juice trickle between the lines of the tiles. Naturally, he'd be curious. So without caring about safety or sensibility or trivial things like cuts and blood, he'd poke the sharp remains and there'd be a throbbing sting and floods of tears and despite his innate fascination, like any young child, he'd be near-hysterical at the mere sight of the wound.

Jim is close to sympathising with his friend (mainly as he considers how difficult it would be for anyone other than himself to calm him down), but then another thought occurs to him.

"You gave him a _glass_?" Moriarty is unashamedly horrified. Given his tendency to lapse into deep meditation and forget his surroundings, he doesn't even think he'd trust _adult_ Sherlock with a glass. Or ceramic mugs, or bowls, or glass beakers with a fricking _toxic concoction_ of chemicals. He simply wouldn't give him a breakable _anything_. Period.

"He had a straw!"

"That's not the point."

"It was a one-time thing, Jim. I mean, what are you gonna do? Package him up in a hoard of bubble-wrap? Kid's gonna experience more than a few cuts and bruises in his lifetime. What with you living the way you do and him being the Sherlock he is. That I can guarantee."

"Nope. Never. Never again," Jim says decisively, curling his arms around Sherlock's belly and perching his chin on top of the youngster's head. "I am never letting you look after him ever, ever again."

"Seriously?" Sebastian scoffs. "You are such a papa-bear. It's a little graze - that's all. I even disinfected it and everything."

He shakes his head and tightens his grip, planting a kiss on the Sherlock's head. " _Never again_."

"Don't I at least get a thank-you?"

"You're lucky you're not getting an, 'I'm-going-to-kill-you.'"

"…Fair enough."

"Daddy?" Sherlock interrupts, glancing up from his game with a thoughtful and somewhat disturbed frown.

Jim's face instantly lightens. "Yes, sweetie?"

"Will 'oo be in the ho'pital fowever?" he wonders, tripping over the difficult word.

"Hospital," he corrects with a patient smile.

"-Cause me dun wanna stay with Unca Seb fowever."

"Hey!" Sebastian interjects. "What's wrong with staying with me?"

Jim doesn't even dignity that with an answer.

"See that bag over there?" Moriarty mentions, indicating the IV. "It's full of a top secret, special formula to make Daddy big and strong again. You got nothing to worry about, 'kay? You don't have to stay with Uncle Seb forever. I would _never_ do that to you-

" _I'm right here!"_

"-So don't you fret. I'll be outta here in no time."

Appeased, Sherlock grins and returns to driving his black cab around Moriarty's face and over the bump of his nose, then announces cheerfully, "Then 'oo wun be so small anymore!"

Jim blinks as Sebastian gives a suspicious cough.

"… _Small_?"

"Yeah!" he enthuses, oblivious to the man's shock. "Unca Seb _waaaaay_ tall," Sherlock drags, opening his arms expansively. "He wike _this_ big. And 'oo, like…" the distance lessens significantly, "-this big."

The consulting criminal takes back every nice thing he thought about children's honesty.

As someone who should, by all rights, be a mightily imposing figure, exuding power and commanding respect from all his encounters, and, instead, is often mistaken for a placid primary school teacher or pleasant medicine practitioner when parted from his beautiful suits, Moriarty's height is… a bit of a sore spot for him.

In the company of the hulking giant that is his right-hand man, this is particularly prominent and it isn't unusual for Jim to dedicate entire days to sulking at the implication that his superior ensemble is purely decorative.

Sebastian sniggers in the background.

Jim fires a spectacular glare and tries not to pout as he grumbles, "Shut it, Sasquatch."

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Two days later, Jim was officially authorized to return home.

While he was packing and getting dressed, he imagined kicking back on the sofa and catching up on a bit of work, with Sherlock playing happily at his feet and blathering away while he only half-listened. Fingers is still vacationing at the posh dog kennels Sebastian booked him into (read: was originally denied admission because it's one of those fancy-wancy places where you're supposed to reserve a spot weeks in advance. Not a problem, though. He threw cash at them until they let the panting fleabag in), so he thought they'd have a nice, relaxing, father-and-son evening and maybe watch a DVD together and rustle up a bowl of homemade popcorn.

He was wrong.

Upon entry, the apartment appears spotless. _Too_ spotless. Everything is in order. Not a stray shoe to be seen, crayons, books, blocks, cushions, dishes, toys - all neatly arranged and cleared away, not a single thing out of place.

At first glance, anyway.

The colourful buckets for Sherlock's toys are only half-full, the floors are dirt-free but don't sparkle, and greasy, smudged fingerprints fog the marble counters and seem to materialize on every conceivable surface, despite the effortlessness of removal (with merely a damp cloth and spritz of sanitizer, they'd be eliminated in an instant), had the kitchen been cleaned as thoroughly as it appears.

Jim's eyes slim.

Making an allowance for his cleaning staff's joint, annual vacation time that falls this time of year and bearing in mind Sebastian's hopelessness when it comes to anything remotely domestic, he deduces that the condo hasn't _really_ been tidied at all.

"Um…Munchkin?" he approaches hesitantly. Hesitant, if only because we all know who would have to pick up the slack. "Did you and Uncle Seb do some tidying up?"

"Yup!" he nods eagerly. But his beam is _waaaayyy_ too bright.

"You didn't…I dunno-" Moriarty casually shrugs, giving every impression that it's totally fine if they had. "Stuff everything under the bed or something, did you?"

The boy shuffles on the spot, eyes falling to the floor.

 _Gotcha_.

Sherlock bites his lip and twists the hem of his tee. "He say not to tell 'oo," he confesses finally.

Course he did.

Careful not to show his displeasure, Jim requests nicely, "Can you show Daddy where the mess is?" Please let it be small, please let it be small-

Now chewing on his thumb, the toddler lowers his head and points to the spare bedroom. "In 'ere."

He steels himself and heads to investigate, and after a quick peek, Moriarty shuts his eyes slightly and breathes out steadily through his nose. They definitely just chucked everything in there. Dirty plates and stinky clothes included. "Well," he clasps his hands together and forces a cheerful demeanour. "Better get started, shall we?"

Here goes nothing.

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You know that song? _Clean up, clean up, everybody, everywhere?_ Yeah?

 _Bullshit_.

He should sue for false advertisement. Not only does it do a bloody awful job of enticing his two-year old to help with the household tasks, but Moriarty has to suffer through the torment of merrily singing it _,_ and it _still_ doesn't do a goddamn thing other than make Sherlock lose any and all respect for him. He can _feel_ his dignity draining away with every bubbly verse, never to return again.

Annoyed that after all the excitement at having his Daddy home, he has to spend the day purging the condo of dirt, Sherlock is already resistant to undertaking this boring task. Throw in Moriarty's own fatigue and reluctance and you have all the makings for a nuclear meltdown.

And, by God, does this come close.

After only half an hour of sluggish work, Moriarty leaves the room for two seconds to retrieve the broom and strolls in to discover that Sherlock has climbed the living room's bookcase in his absence and is presently balancing on the ledge of the shelf, a hundred inches off the ground.

His heart jumps into his throat. "Sherlock!" he barks, "You get down from there this instant!"

The toddler wobbles dangerously at the unanticipated shout and grips the wooden frame tighter, skin turning white.

"But-but me washing photo frames!" he claims, waving his bone-dry rag in the air and nodding at the methodical line of snapshots from their lives - everything from everyday outings, Sherlock napping on his lap, Moriarty helping the tot dig up clay in the garden for his worm farm (which they gave up on soon after because they were gross and Jim was surprisingly squeamish about their ability to create new worms from their chopped up, fallen friends), and professional photo shoots together, to the day they brought home Fingers.

"They don't need washed," Jim growls in exasperation, despite the fact that any other day that would be a basis to lose steam and coo at the cuteness, which he can tell startles Sherlock. "Get down before you fall down!"

Sherlock turns his head and huffs, "No."

Gritting his teeth, without further ado, Jim marches over and wrenches him away like he should have done in the first place. He yelps in surprise and immediately starts lashing out and wailing.

Cue the first of a very long chain of time-outs.

The next time, not long after his release from the naughty corner, he catches a rebellious Sherlock ramming his cuddly toys in the gap between his wardrobe and the wall instead of moving the tremendous three steps and dutifully placing them on the bed.

"Sherlock," the frustrated father scolds. "Stop being difficult."

The little boy widens his blue orbs guilelessly, but if anyone can sense the stirrings of revolt, it's Moriarty and he doesn't trust the innocent expression for one second. "Not."

"Yes, you are. Stop it. That's not where Mr Squiggly and Wilbur go and you know it. No more monkey business. We've got enough clutter to tackle without you fooling around."

With a low groan and begrudging acquiesce, Sherlock tosses the stuffed animals onto the bed and that seems to be that, but not five minutes later, the bow-tie wearing bunny and beady-eyed doggie inexplicably materialize in the fridge.

Thus, the necessity of punishment.

The rest of the afternoon passes difficultly, with the two of them rubbing each other the wrong way at every turn. When Moriarty attempts to make a call to a local cleaning agency (because enough of this household chores shit), he learns that not only is his phone missing, but Sherlock has conveniently disappeared from the scene of the crime.

"Sherlock!" he yells, patting down his pockets and coming up empty. "Did you pickpocket Daddy again?!"

For some reason whenever he's pissed off at Moriarty, Sherlock has taken to stealing his belongings right from under his nose like some wily juvenile crook. If it weren't so infuriating, Moriarty might even be impressed. But at this moment? All it does it prompt another time-out.

He is sick and _tired_ of this nonsense. And did he mention furious? Yeah, he's definitely furious.

"Park your butt on that mat and stay right where you are, mister," Jim commands with a stony expression as he hauls the shrieking youngster over to the corner. "I don't want to hear a peep out of you for the next ten minutes. Understand?"

"Hate 'oo!" Sherlock grinds out, scowl brutal and pout industriously sullen. The tears aren't so frequent by this point. He's far too mad to cry.

Moriarty's nose twitches, but he doesn't say a thing. He simply turns his back and stalks away.

And the cycle continues.

It's no secret that by now Sherlock is acting up purely for the sake of acting up. Both of them are worn out and weary from the constant battles, but neither are willing to surrender their pride just yet.

"What's that in your mouth?"

"Nofing!" Sherlock professes around his bloated, pointy cheek and Moriarty is suddenly terrified he's about to choke on a marble or something.

" _I_ _saw you_ put something in your mouth. Spit it out right now," he orders, jutting out a hand and grimacing as the little boy drops a slimy plastic dinosaur into his palm.

He is so, so tired, he can barely keep his eyes open.

"Right," the consulting criminal utters grimly with a put-upon sigh. "That's back to the naughty corner for you," lifting the thrashing child and carrying him over to the dreaded time-out mat. _Again_.

"No, Daddy! Dun wan naughty corner!"

"Well, you should have thought about that before you shoved your dirty toys into your mouth and scared the bejeezus out of Daddy. Five minutes. No - make that ten. That was a very, very silly thing to do."

"No!" he screeches. "Dun wanna!"

"It'll be fifteen if you're not careful," Moriarty tells him firmly with a strict, unbending gaze. That shuts him up pretty quickly, but Sherlock carries on glowering resentfully at his father and huffily kicks his feet. Turning his back on the disobedient child, Jim resumes tidying and attending to their responsibilities. Well, that's what he _wants_ Sherlock to think. In reality, the young father stands out in the hallway, slides down to the floor with his back against the wall and puts his face in his hands.

He doesn't know how much more of this he can take.

For the first few minutes, the toddler blubbers and whines, red-faced and puffy-eyed, in the belief that if he can only cry hard enough, Moriarty will come back. Ideally, before he makes himself sick.

He doesn't.

Jim's failure to take notice of the child's ongoing tantrum only frustrates and maddens him further, and he wraps his arms around himself and lays his head on his knees while hiccupping in between hoarse, self-pitying whimpers.

Then, eventually, the punishment is over and Moriarty picks himself up and dusts himself off, before returning to where Sherlock has seemingly taken a vow of silence.

"Now," he says resignedly, hunkering down in front of him and tilting his chin up to meet his eyes, "What did you do to earn yourself this time-out?"

He pulls away and grumbles inarticulately, shaking his head and staring at the consulting criminal's shiny shoes.

"Sherlock, what did you do?"

But the youngster only whines in a series of incoherent mumblings.

"I'm sorry," Jim drawls, fed-up and lacking any form of patience, "I don't speak cranky. Can you repeat that? In English this time?"

Sherlock emits a morose moan and slaps his hands over his wet face.

"Fine. Forget it. I give up. Just go pick up the rest of your toys and don't _ever_ do that again. Got it?" The toddler nods hardly and stomps off, whinging gloomily to himself. Jim thrusts a hand through his hair and blows out a shaky breath as a seed of guilt grows in his stomach.

He shouldn't have done that.

That was a dick move, wasn't it? This whole afternoon has been one gigantic parenting fail. Stupid mistake after stupid mistake. Not once did he deal with Sherlock from a position of care and understanding. Not once did he offer a smidgen of comfort following his rigorous chastisements.

Not once did he cut the obviously sleep-deprived, distressed child any slack, when all he wanted was Jim's love and attention after several hard days where Moriarty was willing to bet he got very little rest or peace of mind.

God, he's such an a-hole.

He tracks Sherlock down in the boy's bedroom, where he's holed up in the corner (the non-naughty one) and sobbing into that damn scarf.

Moriarty doesn't think he's ever felt so bad in his life.

He clears his throat (tries to dislodge the lump in his throat), and watches as his Munchkin hurls a wary glance his way.

"C'mere, sweetheart," Jim says softly, bending down and opening out his arms. "Daddy needs a hug."

Surprised but relieved, Sherlock stumbles over to him and tucks himself into his Daddy's embrace, knuckling moist eyes and soaking up the affection.

"I'm sorry, baby. I guess we've both been pretty grumpy today, huh?" Jim murmurs, rubbing the toddler's back in amorous, remorseful caresses. "I shouldn't have shouted at you."

Sherlock sniffles and defends, "Was bad."

"Yeah, you weren't too nice yourself," he agrees with the suggestion of a smile. "But I know that Daddy frightened you when he was sick and I also know that it's been a tough couple weeks and that I wasn't very fair to you." The child nods clumsily, still glued to his chest and with a chubby hand inching upwards to grip his father's hair. "Is there anything Daddy can do to make it up to you?"

His voice is small and hesitant. "..Pancakes?"

Moriarty laughs warmly. "Sure thing, darling," he permits. "Any time you want. But…is that all? Nothing else? You don't want a new toy? Or how about that fancy microscope you were hankering for?"

"Pancakes," Sherlock repeats resolutely.

"Okay-dokie, Munchkin. Pancakes, it is." It's easy to accede when his lips are composed of the most affectionate of glowing smiles. He'll get that other stuff anyway.

Mindful of the kid's exhaustion from misbehaving all day, Jim brushes the hair out of his face and gazes into his clear blue eyes to propose, "What say we go lie down for a bit, hmm? We'll both have a lovely snooze together, how's that? Pinky promise, I won't snore." The self-deprecating remark bags him a slow half-smile and Moriarty squashes his lips to the boy's crown in a squelchy peck. "Mwah!"

Sherlock giggles, chafing his forehead with a rough heel of his hand and a wrinkled nose.

"C'mon," Jim laughs, "It's beddy-byes for my little rascal." He moves to stand, but the toddler binds his arms around Jim's neck in a choke-hold and encircles his legs around his waist, pushing his face into the hollow of his throat with a sleepy snuffle, apparently going along for the ride.

"And can…can do poem, Daddy?" Sherlock asks meekly as Moriarty carries him into his room, pawing at his shirt and fiddling with the buttons.

He glances down in surprise. "Again? Aren't you getting sick of that by now?"

"Wan poem, Daddy."

Moriarty grins. This is one type of stubbornness he can approve. "You got it, sweet pea."

He settles down on his bed and swaddles the boy in his cherished blankie along with his two partners in crime, Mr Squiggly and Wilbur. Then, as Sherlock sucks his thumb and he teases the stands of his fluffy hair, Jim recites for what could possibly be the hundredth time since the poem's introduction to his son's life last month, " _One fine morning in the middle of the night, Two dead boys got up to fight / Back to back they faced each other, Drew out swords and shot the other / A deaf policeman heard this noise, And shot the two dead boys / If you don't believe my lies to be true, Ask the blind man he saw it too."_

And then Sherlock's peaceful snores float up to his ears and Jim's lids are sinking and his breaths are slowing, and everything is perfect, exactly like he'd wanted.

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_Thanks for reading._ _This ended up being a lot longer than I'd anticipated._ _Please review and let me know if you enjoyed Sherlock's wicked antics?_


	13. The Pretty Lady

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**The Pretty Lady**

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**A/N:** A short prompt fill (at least, it was supposed to be short) for the wonderful xxXkmiXxx who asked that Sherlock get his due after making poor Jim jealous of a dog in chapter nine. I tweaked it slightly, hope you don't mind ;)

In answer to Api Berbulu's question, sadly the poem is the previous chapter is not mine - I wish! I don't know who wrote it. It's actually one of my little sister's favourite's (she's ten), and when she showed it to me, I fell in love. I just had to include it in the story; it seems like exactly the kind of thing little Sherlock would appreciate. As for how I picture Sebastian, due to the wonders of the internet and the various Mormor fan art I've stumbled across, I am a teeny bit guilty of imagining him as a Michael Fassbender type figure - but you can picture him however you want!

Also, I'd like to thank-you for all of your extremely kind reviews. They are delightful and never fail to put a huge smile on my face :)

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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A flock of birds take off into the air and vanish amid the shelter of the trees as the bouncing yaps of a hyper canine draw closer and closer.

The sky is a deep, azure blue and the sun beats down on father and son as they enjoy a quiet after-dinner walk in the park with Fingers, who pauses every now and then to mark his territory, taking in all the new sights and smells with endless enthusiasm.

He's not as bad out in public as one might expect. Fingers doesn't growl or sniff other dog's butts (mostly because Jim yanks him out of their path so he never gets the chance, but E for Effort, right?), and he loves children and strangers and leaves and insects and creepy old men and flowers.

The puppy's nice to pretty much everyone and everything.

That is, except for birds.

The birds… aren't so fortunate. He barks and bounds forward, tugging on the leash and ardently wriggling at the mere sighting of a feather.

Jim can't decide if the pup hates the winged creatures who can fly out of his reach whenever they please and who peck at the scraps on the ground he's claimed are all his with a fiery passion, or if he's just really eager to make new friends.

Either way, it's both hilarious and tedious.

"Me walk Fingews?" Sherlock asks after finishing his chocolate ice-cream (a fixture at their trips to the park ever since that first outing), as he skips along beside Jim and swings their hands between them.

"I don't think so, sweetheart," Jim tells him as he pulls a tissue from his pocket to wipe the toddler's sticky face. "He's a little too boisterous for you, I'm afraid. Blow," he instructs, pilfering another fresh tissue.

Sherlock obliges with a profusion of brown-tainted snot, before grabbing a fistful of Moriarty's own shirt and roughly rubbing his nose. _Thanks for that_. "What that mean?"

"Gross," Jim mutters with an upturned mouth as he walks a couple steps and lobs the used tissues in the bin. Only then does he answer, "It _means_ that if he gets too excited and tries to run ahead, he could rip your arm right off."

Sherlock unconsciously clutches his arm and with eyes as wide as saucers, opts, "'Oo can keep 'em."

Jim nods approvingly. "Wise choice. Now, what do we do after we blow our nose?"

Sherlock quickly holds out his hands and the toddler is soon distracted from his horror as the young father squirts a blob of sanitizer into his palm, giggling gleefully at the sound.

"Yeah, yeah," Jim says wryly, "It sounds like the bottle farted. How hilarious." It's appalling how accustomed to toilet humour you become when you're living with a toddler.

He smears the clear, spearmint blob over their hands and massages it in, pushing away Fingers when he decides the sanitizer might make a tasty appetizer, flitting a pink tongue over the consulting criminal's skin.

Pulling a face, Sherlock giggles again, "Yut."

"Mhm," he agrees, rolling his eyes, "Yuck. Now our hands are actually clean," he gasps. "Whatever will we do?"

Sherlock recognizes the sarcastic tone, but cries all the same, "Go eat wowms!"

"I'd like to see you try, kiddo," which was basically the same as, _Over my dead body._

By the time they reach the play area, Sherlock has already filled him in on the nutritional value of gorging on worms and that they wouldn't be so bad if, 'they tasted wike jam and toast.'

He is about to ask Sherlock for a change of subject when his phone chimes and he holds up a finger to bring the boy's speech to a temporary standstill, assuming that it must be important.

**_'You look tired - Unknown Number'_ **

Moriarty stiffens at the message - and what the message implies - and instinctively pushes Sherlock behind him, scouring the park for its sender.

It wouldn't be hard to spot them in a crowd.

Jim frowns.

Her brunette hair is perfectly made up, sun-streaked and deceptively natural, and it falls around her shoulders in concise, luscious curls. She wears an understated, figure-hugging lilac dress that tucks in at the knees and glistening, diamond earrings, with little else in the way of accessories, and her lips are painted her striking ruby red, yet her make-up is impressively modest nevertheless.

She is, in a word, breathtaking.

"You, Mr Moriarty," she tsks, sauntering up to the pair, "are a very difficult man to track down."

"Good," he greets simply. The tension in between his shoulder blades slowly resides. "Just the way I like it."

Apparently, Irene Adler has returned from her self-imposed exile.

"I have a proposal for you."

"A _personal_ proposal, by any chance?" he smirks. They're not necessarily attracted to each other, oh, no, but they're both terrible flirts and who doesn't like to have a bit of fun? It's easy to fall back into old habits.

"You could say so," she laughs, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek and leaving behind a smear of scarlet lipstick, and Moriarty can see the young child by his side instantly bristle at the over-familiarity of the gesture.

"Who 'oo?" Sherlock asks bluntly as Irene links her arm through Jim's.

"This is my friend, Irene," Moriarty introduces in a very cavalier fashion, though inside he smirks at the smidge of jealousy in his baby boy's puckered up features. "Irene, meet my son. Sherlock."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock." Her lips unfurl in a pleasant smile, but they retain a tint of something like an inside joke as she trades an amused glance with Moriarty, before glimpsing down at their feet. "And who is this little beauty?" Irene coos, bending over and petting Fingers.

"Ignore it," Jim advices in an ominous tone and glances downwards in aversion. "He's Satan in disguise."

But given the rare opportunity, his son is proud to show off his dim-witted chum. "This Fingers. He ate a baby butterfly," Sherlock readily updates the total stranger, referring to the hairy caterpillar the mutt slurped up earlier in the day, while Moriarty scrubs his forehead and nosily exhales as if to say, _here we go again_. "Daddy say it probably dead now."

 _You couldn't have just gone with a normal story, could you?_ Jim thinks to himself, shaking his head in resignation.

There's a brief pause.

Unlike Jim, she's not au fait with the strange quirks of children.

"Charming," Irene replies dryly, withdrawing her hand from the pup's fur.

"Umm, Sherlock? Why don't you go play for a bit?" Jim suggests, "I'll be here with Irene if you need me."

"What bout Fingews?" Sherlock asks, but the young father knows that his reluctance to leave has nothing to do with the dog's whereabouts.

"He can stay with me." And with that, Moriarty leaves him to it, turning back to the enticing dominatrix, "Shall we?" He nods to a nearby bench and she gracefully takes a seat and he follows with Fingers toddling beside him. The pup flops to the ground, panting and squinting at the sun.

It's exceedingly petty of him, but isn't jealousy the most petty emotion? Jim's allowed to reveal in it a little, right? It won't do any harm.

…Probably.

When he peeks over, Sherlock has already scampered off and is attempting to conquer the monkey bars, so it couldn't be that bad, he figures.

"So this is him, then?" Irene says, following his gaze. "He's rather cute."

"He has his moments," Moriarty answers with an uncaring lilt to his mouth.

It may be too late to conceal the sheer size of the soft spot he harbours for the former detective, but he'll be damned if he verbally confirms it too.

Jim is unmoved and unsurprised as the woman sidles closer, shaded eyes roving over his casual attire - tailored, light purple shirt rolled up to the elbows and dark jeans. Obviously dad clothes as opposed to the customary business-like gear she's used to seeing him in. Stylish, yes, but dad clothes, nonetheless.

There's even a small stain and deepened creases on the lower corner where Sherlock routinely clings to him. She rests her gaze there for longer than is strictly necessary.

It makes him ever-so-slightly uncomfortable.

"I almost didn't believe it when I heard. I said to Kate, I simply must see for myself," Irene recalls with a bold smirk. "How _is_ fatherhood treating everyone's beloved baddie, by the way? Watson's beside himself."

"You didn't seriously go to all this trouble just to tell me about the stupid soldier's plight? If you're here to plead your case, make it quick. Believe me, you are certainly going the wrong way about it."

They both have a penchant for pushing people's buttons, but that is one conversation he does not wish to have with her. Or anyone, for that matter.

Her face remains blamelessly blank. "Can't a girl be curious?"

"Curious enough to risk her safety?" he says dubiously. His electric eyes are unreadable, unpredictable. "Not in my experience."

"Oh, don't you fret about that, sweetie. I've got it covered." She winks at him, then closes the short space between them to seductively murmur, "Can you keep a secret?"

"Depends. How juicy is it?"

She half-shrugs, not giving anything away. "Juicy enough that it's a secret and I shouldn't have it."

"Ooh, naughty, naughty," he chuckles, "Struck another deal, did we?"

"Better than that, I'd say," she reveals as she glances off in the distance and elegantly crosses her long legs, settling back against the backrest and angling her body towards the consulting criminal, posture poised and enigmatic. "Why? Want in?"

"I might," he hedges. "If the dirt's any good."

Flaunting the suggestive dip in her v-line and glancing up from under a flicker of lashes, Irene leans in conspiringly and places a dainty hand on his bicep.

" _Filthy_ ," she assures, faint breath warming his skin, half-lidded, entrancing blue eyes dark with desire. Jim swallows slightly and denies himself the luxury of a shiver.

He pauses, licking his lips. "...You won't bore me?"

"Trust me," she breathes, parting ruby red, sensuous lips and gazing with deadly intimacy into the depths of his eyes. Her voice is a husky whisper. "I'd have you positively _quivering_ with excitement."

"Daddy?"

Jolted from his thoughts, he glances down when he feels a tentative tug on his trousers.

He hadn't even noticed him approach. The man should have at least detected a jerking of the leash as Fingers leapt up at the sight of his bestie.

But he didn't.

"What is it, Munchkin?" Jim enquires with a spreading of the lips.

Beside him, Irene straightens in irritation at their interruption.

"Ummm," Sherlock stares at the ground in a fragile uncertainty he's never seen from him before, looking very, very small. "'Oo…'oo go down 'lide with me?" He absentmindedly gnaws on a fingernail, weirdly shy all of a sudden.

"Sorry, baby. I wish I could," he frowns and cards his fingers through the boy's curls regretfully, "But Daddy's too big to fit on those slides."

 _Take that_ , _Sebastian_ , and all of your 'Small Fry' taunts.

" _I_ not."

"Yeah, 'course _you're_ not." Jim rolls his eyes. A toddler's logic is, and always will be, a beautiful mystery to him. "That's 'cause you're just a tiny little shrimp," he teases, chucking him under the chin and grinning as he squirms away and gurgles.

Irene observes the interaction like a cat waiting to pounce.

"But Unca Seb do it!" Sherlock persists, as if that changes everything.

"Does he now?" Jim murmurs. He wishes he'd gotten evidence of _that_. Perhaps he should review the park's CCTV footage of the last three weeks and see if he strikes gold? It would make excellent blackmail material. "Well, Uncle Seb's a silly billy."

Sherlock bounces on his feet, " _Peas_?"

"No can do, shortie. Even if I _could_ do it, and I'm not saying I can, Daddy's busy. Remember that chat we had? About sharing?" Sherlock kicks the dirt and nods his head sullenly, "This is one of those times. And need I remind you, Daddy can't be in two places at once. Why don't you go ahead, though? I'll be right over here."

"Fine," he grouses, before giving Fingers one last farewell pat and traipsing back to the play equipment with a bitter scowl.

"Do you always refer to yourself in third person?" Irene wonders once he's gone, idly twirling her locks around a perfectly manicured finger, nails tipped red.

"Need I remind _you_ , we are not here to gossip about how I parent my son," Moriarty remarks coldly.

"Alright, then." She recovers fast. "So what do you think? About my proposition?"

"You're a big girl," states Jim, with a bored expression. "You can take care of it yourself."

"You know I can," Irene Adler drawls in return. "But I'd _much_ rather your help." Tilting her head, she doesn't have to curve her lips to smile.

"It'll cost you," he warns.

"The best ones don't come cheap. Besides," she confides in a low, sultry voice, creeping a sensual hand up his thigh. "You know you're my favourite."

"Am I?" Moriarty counters, arching a long brow and snatching her wrist to halt her movements.

With a secretive smile, she ghosts a hand across his cheek in the lightest of caresses. "Are you _really_ going to make me work for it?"

"Ma _aaa_ ybe," he sings, grinning. "Could be fun."

"Now - that, I don't doubt." But she seems put out by his unresponsiveness. The brown-haired woman gives an unsatisfied moan and cajoles, "Come on, Jim. Be a dear."

"Don't try to butter me up."

"But I came all this way," she pouts.

Moriarty's reply is dismissive. "I'll consider it." He stands, disrupting her arm from where it had slinked around his without his say-so. "That's all I can promise."

"I'd say that's as good as a yes, but I don't want to jinx myself."

"Smart woman."

She, too, then rises and stops right in front of him. Only a hairbreadth away, Irene neatens his collar and grazes her fingers across his neck, then very slowly, very deliberately, leans in and trails her lips along his jaw with the utmost delicacy. "That's better," she hums, touching his collar once more and taking a step back. There is no shock value, though. Toying with men's masculinity is her favourite hobby, after all.

"Au revoir, Jim, my darling," Irene Adler purrs, "I'll be in touch."

And then she's gone. As abruptly as she appeared.

He only laughs and disentangles Finger's leash from where it has wrapped itself around his feet, before heading over to his son.

Alone and vaguely miserable, Sherlock is perched on the swings, barely moving, and he startles when Moriarty materializes behind him and begins gently pushing.

They continue in silence for several minutes, _back and forth, back and forth_ , Sherlock swinging, Moriarty pushing, only the cooling breeze between them.

Then Sherlock speaks up.

"I'ene gone?"

Jim nods, making a popping sound with his mouth, "Yup."

"She be back?"

"Dunno."

"Dun like that woman," the toddler says with a frown.

Moriarty laughs and takes Sherlock's hand, so that he can safely jump down. "I know you don't."

They stay until the sun melts over the horizon in a smog of dusty orange and then they walk home in the fading sunlight, Sherlock balanced on Jim's hip as he awkwardly zips him up into the spare hoodie he'd brought along, before snuggling in for warmth, thumb delving deeper into his mouth, while his Dad sings under his breath and Fingers waddles and barks at birds.

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_Thanks for reading. Please review? I know it's not very long after the last update, but what can I say? My muse was in a good mood._


	14. Perfect Day

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**Perfect Day**

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**A/N:** This chapter is both an apology and a thank-you. Thank-you for being so patient and amazing; I'm sorry it's been so long since my last update. I certainly didn't intend to leave you all hanging. This is really not my best work and there are probably a ton of mistakes, but I hope you guys like it all the same.

 **Disclaimer:** _none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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Sleeves rolled up to his elbows and hair dishevelled, the dark profile of his face is illuminated by a ruddy, shaded glow as he tweaks the wires of his prototype, linking ideas and drifting embers of his smouldering vision with a tightened screw here, a quick snip there, hunched over a slab of metal and bolts and compact cable that shivers and thrums like an exposed nerve.

As of yet, the sample bomb is only in the earliest stages of development and remains unattached to any serious power source, running on a very low voltage. Before his life with Sherlock, Jim wouldn't have taken such measures - idly fitting the parts together like the pieces of an afternoon puzzle, with no concern for the risks involved or the safety of passer-by's. He flirted with fate every chance he got, courting with the breath of Death and blowing dandelions with a single wish.

But now he has his son to consider. The stakes are so much higher. And the consultant does his best to minimise the hazards of his job whenever possible. It has been a while since he has hand-crafted his designs, though, and this prototype may be a mere shadow of the final product, but Moriarty is pleased with the results so far. He has a good feeling about this one. It's coming together quite nicely, taking into account the fact he formulated the core foundations while rocking Sherlock to sleep and singing the tot a sweet lullaby.

Jim leans back and flexes his fingers, before referring to the rough sketches and clear-cut blue prints for guidance, pinned above his head on a large cork board alongside newspaper clippings and toothed pages of print he'd torn out of his latest delivery of books, too impatient to sort through the considerable stack and bookmark the locations of any relevant information, preferring to take what he wants and discard the leftovers.

He doesn't have much time for literature that isn't the classics and Jim has no qualms about scribbling on the crisp paper of a rare edition or the glossy surface of a chemistry textbook that is all wrong and lacks any resemblance of true scholarly thought process.

Jim is so absorbed in his work that he glances at his watch and startles at the realisation he'd forgotten to put Sherlock to bed for the first time in, well, ever.

 _Shit_.

Earlier, when he'd gone to check on him, - two, three hours ago? - Sherlock had thrown himself over his drawing, concealing it from Moriarty's sight, and screeched at him to get out. He had assumed it was another toddler thing, where he sees Daddy working on something secret and _has_ to do the same.

Yet when he dashes into the boy's room and skids to a stop, Jim is positively speechless at his discovery.

Slumped on the floor with his bottom in the air, drool-glazed thumb fallen by his ear and a green crayon ensnared in a loose fist, Sherlock is out for the count. His t-shirt has risen to reveal an adorable potbelly and his lips are puckered and move soundlessly as he twitches in his sleep.

Smiling softly, Jim removes the crayon from his grasp and carefully hoists Sherlock over his shoulder - where he immediately latches onto his hair, coiling a generous lock around his hand, - pausing at the sound of crackling. Forehead wrinkling, he adjusts the toddler with one arm and absentmindedly pats his back while he reaches down and picks up the - now creased - sheet of paper.

It's a drawing. Two misshapen figures walking hand in hand through a scrawl of green as a blob of a dog monopolizes the space beside them, each head distortionary large compared to their wobbly, stick frame and leaving the distinct aftertaste of incompleteness. But, still. It's surprisingly endearing. And as Jim takes in the stuttering letters reading _My Daddy_ , he feels the creeping sensation that he's missing something and racks his brain for answers.

It hits him like a ton of bricks.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he has to shove down the sudden swell of emotion.

Tomorrow - of course. _Of course_ , Sherlock would remember. How could he not? Had Moriarty not been so caught up in his work, he might have remembered too.

Father's day. Tomorrow is _father's day_ \- how could Jim have let the date slip his mind? Most holiday's are incredibly tedious to him, but this was the one day he thought might have registered as having some sort of significance. At least, that's what Jim had hoped. Growing up, he'd never had a dad to celebrate with. The deadbeat jackass he had certainly wasn't worth commemorating and the thin thread of DNA was the only thing tying father and son together, the debt of family and the necessity of interaction becoming less and less imperative as the conflict between them grew and grew until their bitter words and near-constant state of disagreement eclipsed any sense of blood relation.

Jim doesn't want Sherlock's idolization to be snuffed out under a weight of disappointment and Moriarty's own indifference. He needs to _participate_ \- to fully embrace the opportunity to relax and enjoy the other's company in a way his father never did.

Christ, he never thought he'd be saying this, but Jim needs to learn from his father's mistakes, because he really doesn't think he can handle making the same ones.

"…Mm...m'picture," Sherlock mumbles, lifting his head off his Daddy's shoulder and groggily looking around. Jim snaps out of his daze.

"It's just Daddy, sweetheart," he whispers, brushing a few stray curls out of his eyes. "Go back to sleep. Your picture's safe."

He carries Sherlock into his bedroom and changes him into a fresh pull-up and his footie pyjamas, even more gentle and doting than usual as he presses a tender kiss to the toddler's foot before manoeuvring the limb inside the leg hole. Jim settles down on the bed and pulls Sherlock against him, draping his blankie over his peaceful form and wrapping an arm around his little shoulders. The father pushes stiff rubber against his lips and smirks as he approves the offering, watching Sherlock cuddle Wilbur in the crook of his arm, before coming to a decision.

"Cancel my appointments," he instructs down the phone, staring at his son's slack face as he snuffles against the sucker and kneads Wilbur's floppy ear between his thumb and forefinger. "Tell them tomorrow doesn't work for me. Something better has come up."

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After shyly gifting Moriarty with the charming picture the following morning, unable to look his father in the eye as he scuffed the floor with his foot and sucked on the sleeve of his onsie, Jim couldn't resist squashing his precious Munchkin in a long hug, incredibly reluctant to let go as he cooed syrupy nonsense into his ear.

The excruciating sweetness of the moment _may_ have gotten to him and he sorta, kinda, maybe broke the news a little too soon.

As soon as he heard about their day's activities, Sherlock instantly became a whole other level of hyper, as if activating his inner cheeky monkey that Jim has never been privy to, and he jumps and bops and leaps around the furniture fearlessly.

"Contrary to popular belief, the sofa is not a trampoline," Jim intervenes, "Down. Now!"

Sherlock steps off the cushion, but there's no time for relax because he's determined to burn off that extra energy one way or another.

Despite Jim's warnings, he spins round and around in circles in the centre of the kitchen and tumbles over after getting a head rush. Thankfully, the fall is cushioned by the slim padding of his pull-up, so the young father is saved from an outburst of snot and tears, but it only accords Sherlock less time to recover. He's up and at it again in under a minute, flipping over and giggling madly as he gazes up at Moriarty upside down.

Jim finally gets him to sit at peace after plonking him down at the table and relinquishing the confiscated plastic whistle the toddler had taken a shine to the previous week from his possession and letting Sherlock bluster and spray little droplets of spit to his little heart's content.

The hammering headache is a small price to pay for the freedom to turn to other things besides making sure Sherlock doesn't get into any more trouble. He'll throw the damn thing away later when the tot's distracted with something better.

But the franticness of the morning starts to catch up to him as he tries to juggle three tasks at once and fails spectacularly.

In his hurry, he accidentally trips over one of Sherlock's toys, which he kicks out of the way while stifling a curse, and afterwards, Jim knocks over a container of rice that pours liberally out onto the floor in his quest for a quick option to fix for breakfast.

Jim crushes a box of Cheerios in one hand and plunges another inside to unravel the clear sachet, scrunched up to protect the half-eaten cereal from going stale, as he sweeps up the white grain into a messy pile with his foot and nudges a gorging Fingers out of the way using his knee.

"Leave it. That's not for you," Jim scolds the insatiable pup, "Your breakfast is over there." He indicates the bowl of kibble and when that fails, strides over and jiggles the dish enticingly. He whistles and rolls his eyes as the mutt's head snaps up. Typical. "Yeah, that's right. Over here." Fingers sprints over so fast he skids on the tile and bumps into the bowl, before wolfing down the meat feast with staggering single-mindedness.

That leaves Moriarty to snatch two bowls from the middle shelf and shake out a generous serving, and there's a clatter of cutlery as he collects a couple of spoons and rams the drawer shut with his hip. After unscrewing the lid of the milk and adding a splash, he places it in front of the wriggling youngster.

Like a typical rambunctious two-year old, Sherlock bangs the base of the spoon against the table while bouncing in place and to Jim's displeasure, he dunks a wet hand into the milk in order to scoop out a handful of the evasive Cheerios, throwing back his head as he drops them one by one into his mouth.

He scoffs down his own portion in between firing off emails to a select few clients containing brief updates for the more urgent projects and his instructions for the day. Just because he's decided to take the day off doesn't mean his network has to suffer. Only Sebastian is granted the courtesy of an explanation and even then he skimps on the details.

_[8:20] Taking the Munchkin out. All calls will be redirected to your phone and I expect you to take them. As per our agreement, your monthly paycheck will be slashed by ten percent for every call you miss and I reserve the right to shove your face in a blender should you botch anything up ;) - JM_

_[8:22] I don't remember agreeing to that last one, boss - SM_

At this point, he is busy having a crack at persuading Sherlock to finish all of his Cheerios and letting the mongrel out for a piss and doesn't have the chance to reply until over ten minutes later.

_[8:37] Honey, don't you know by now I always improvise the terms and conditions? - JM_

_[8:38] Do not disappoint me, Sebby - JM_

There's also the chore of arranging a handful of personnel to tail them for the outing, on the look out for anything suspicious and tasked with guarding the perimeter, and also bribing the security for their planned destination, lest The Iceman catch wind of his whereabouts.

"Go get dressed," he instructs once it's clear the boy isn't planning to eat any more, having slumped back against the chair and begun rubbing his tummy with the most pitiful doe eyes in existence. "Your clothes are laid out on the bed." As Sherlock hops down and shoots off down the hallway, he yells, "And remember to brush your teeth! Don't make me do a breath-test!"

Trusting Sherlock to make himself minimally presentable without his assistance, Jim whizzes around the flat for kiddie essentials to load into Sherlock's blue elephant backpack, chucking in pull-ups, wipes, tissues, the fleece blankie, a sucker which he quickly rinses under the sink, spare clothes, a sippy cup filled with apple juice in case he gets thirsty on the way there, a mini first-aid kit and hand sanitizer. Last but not least, he balls up an extra shirt for himself and adds it to the jumble for precaution, since one time they visited a museum in Amsterdam and Sherlock got overexcited and puked on his shoulder.

As much as he does _not_ want a repeat incident, Moriarty is gonna make damn sure he comes prepared. He'd had to buy a horrible touristy shirt from a market stall and slip it on inside the cramped cubicle of the nearest bathroom with Sherlock peeping up at him with vast, watery eyes and wobbly lips. It was sickening on all accounts.

"Those are two different socks," Jim points out with a frown when the youngster reappears and immediately tears into the backpack of riches, poking around and pulling out bits and pieces to chuck behind him and generally undoing all of his Dad's hard work.

Sherlock gives him a look as if to say, 'So?' and continues exploring.

The consulting criminal sighs, but lets it go. He knows when to pick his battles, and he also knows a lost cause when he sees one.

"Daddy!" Sherlock scowls, "'Oo forgetted my king!"

"No, Daddy did not forget your king because we're not going on vacation or moving house; we're going on a day out. So there's really no need to pack all of our belongings."

"But I wan' my king, Daddy!"

"You don't need a king today, baby, not where you're going. And what if he got broke again, huh? It's already been super glued together twice, don't push it."

During the past couple of weeks, Sherlock has developed a strange obsession with the king piece of the chess board Moriarty bought him, to the point where he carries it around everywhere and even tries to take it to bed. When Jim denied him this, Sherlock snuck the chess piece under his pillow and as such, it has a tendency to crack in half and one day Jim fears it will be irreparable. He honestly doesn't think he could cope with the fallout.

"But - but, _Dadddddyyy_!" Sherlock whines, the hitch of his breath leading to an onslaught of heartbreaking sniffles.

"I'm sorry, sweet pea, but you can't get everything you want. I've got plenty of stuff to keep a busy bee like you happy," Jim soothes, gathering up the shed items and showing Sherlock inside, "See? Any more and it'll be too heavy for Daddy to carry." He zips up the bag and Sherlock jerks the straps and attempts to lift it for about two seconds, before dumping it on the ground and abandoning the notion. "King will be waiting for you when you get back."

"Okay," he murmurs, "Gonna…gonna say bye." Sherlock swipes his runny nose and blinks back tears.

"That's a good idea," Jim agrees softly, lips curled slightly at the corners as he hurries off. "Oh," he shouts after him, "And don't forget - _teeth_!"

He runs a comb through his hair and squirts out a dollop of gel, massaging it in and raking his dark locks in place. A tug on his trousers causes him to glance down.

"Daddy - wan' that!" Sherlock demands, pointing to the colourful fruit bowl on the counter and joggling on the spot.

"What do you want an orange for?" he asks, confused. "You just had cereal."

"M'hungry!"

Oh, for Christ's sake!

"Fine. Fine," Jim grumbles irritably, refraining from commenting that had he polished off all of his cereal like he was supposed to, he wouldn't be feeling peckish now. "We don't have time for this. Here," he drops the fresh fruit into his open palms and mentally double-checks he has everything he needs.

Grinning, Sherlock digs his nails into the orange and crinkles his nose. "Ow," he giggles, as the juices dribble down to a healing graze on his knuckle. "Stingy." He covers the area with his mouth and sucks for a moment to ease the sharp tingle, before whacking Jim with the mashed up orange to get his attention.

"What?" he says distractedly, hooking the elephant backpack over his shoulder and texting his driver to let him know they're ready.

"Open!"

Chuckling and shaking his head, Moriarty peels the orange and bins the skin. He is about to head out the door when he notices.

"Sherlock!" Jim exclaims, the groan simmering in his throat leaving him suspended, caught between annoyance and amusement, "Where are your bloody shoes?"

"There," he says, pointing behind the sofa.

"This is only one shoe," Jim replies, picking it up. "What happened to the other one?"

Sherlock stares blankly.

"Great," he mutters, voice stuffed with sarcasm, "That's perfect."

Finally, after another twenty minutes spent hopelessly searching, he herds Sherlock out into the back of the black town car and wrestles the toddler into the car-seat, only to struggle to buckle his seatbelt as he writhes around and cranes his neck to look around him, cheeks bloated as he chomps on an orange segment and squirts what feels like acid in Jim's eyes.

"Sherlock," Moriarty tsks, gritting his teeth, "Sit still."

"M'bored!"

"We haven't even left yet."

Exhausted and battling a raging headache, Jim sinks into the leather upholstery and shuts his eyes, releasing a long, quiet breath. He feels as if he's been through hell and back and the day's only getting started.

Whatever possessed him to think this was a good idea? Holy crap, what has he gotten himself into now? It isn't too late to turn the car around, is it?

"What 'bout Fingers?" Sherlock pipes up after a brief minute of silence.

"Fingers is staying here," Jim responds with world weariness way beyond his years as he turns away from the window to set eyes on his cranky son.

"But I wan' Fingers to come!" he whines. Definitely not too late, right?

Moriarty kneads between his brows where the concrete tension seems almost insurmountable, permanently stamped onto his tight expression. "Well, that's too bad."

"Why?"

"Because he can't come. End of."

"Why?" Sherlock persists, apparently immune to the snappy tone.

"Because he's a dog and dogs aren't allowed where we're going."

"Why?"

"Because dogs are stupid and nobody likes them," Moriarty pronounces, voice brittle. He exhales brusquely and changes the subject with a brisk, "Finish your orange."

Then, as he orders the driver to press play on the classical CD he recycles as a night time lullaby and the refined, silky notes and beautiful melodies transcend his annoyance, Jim feels the stress bleed from his muscles. About ten minutes later, he hears a thump and glances over to find Sherlock fast asleep, hand limp and a half-eaten orange rolling across the floor. Jim really shouldn't be surprised. He almost always dozes off when they go anywhere in the car, lulled by the steady motions.

 _This'll be interesting an trip_ , he thinks, a wan smile conquering the vacant exhaustion of his face as he reaches a hand across the backseat to stroke his Munchkin's soft curls. Real interesting, indeed.

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_Thanks for reading. The second part should be up soon. And remember - prompts are always welcome :)_


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